


Whether I'm Right Or Wrong

by EllaStorm



Series: Angels [2]
Category: Bandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: (Pre-Make Up), Eventual Smut, F/M, Post-Break Up, So Bear With me, Solo Artist Harry, Witty Comebacks, and dramatic, and members of 1D talking sense into our lovely protagonists, and romantic, but it is going to be very funny, great make-up-sex, there will be more random celebrity cameos, this is kind of painful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 15:17:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12843927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: Sometimes it is nobody’s fault when things don’t work out. When after making it through more than a few rough patches together, you fall apart in the least rough of them. Tris Callahan knows that. But, still, of all people, Harry and she were supposed to make it, weren’t they? Destiny says otherwise. Although, speaking of, it isn't quite as easy as that, because destiny – well, destiny is a bitch. And destiny proceeds to get Niall involved, and then management, and then Her Majesty, The Bloody Queen of England, and suddenly Tris is hard-pressed to think about the term "love of my life" and what that actually means...[Part 2 of the "Angels" series]





	1. Prologue: Almost

**Author's Note:**

> Good day, my lovely readers.  
> I AM DOING IT.  
> Meaning: Not only have I recently finished THE lengthiest story of my AO3 career with Part 1 of this series (yes, it is a series now!!!), I am coming back for more, and I have all intentions of taking it out on you. If you haven't read Part 1 of this ("And Through It All"), please do; otherwise this might confuse the hell out of you. If you like confusion, though, knock yourselves out!  
> I hope you'll have fun with this; and don't forget - just because I like to torture the people you love, doesn't mean I don't love you. It just means I love you differently <3

It was an adrenaline rush, finally getting her out of her jeans and her thin, red jumper and onto the bed of his apartment, all giggles and softness beneath him. She tried to keep his hair out of their faces with her hands, which was not an easy task – the curls were falling down way over his shoulders at this point, obscuring his view every opportunity they got – and Harry had been debating on whether to cut them, but he kind of liked his hair like that. And it wasn’t getting on his nerves quite enough for him to crop it out of mere convenience. Yet.

“This is unfair, Harold. Why are you still dressed?” Her eyes looked up at him, all smiling mischief with a tinge of annoyance, and Harry laughed and took it upon himself to open the first few buttons on his shirt. Only a second later he found himself flipped on his back, a surprised sound in his throat at the shift and her sudden weight on his hips, as long, graceful fingers took the task literally from his hands. She grinned down at him from her superior position, green and blue mixing in her eyes, her skin just pale enough to make clear that she wasn’t born and raised in California, underlined by the intricate lace design of her bra that looked a lot more Paris than L.A..

“Too slow, Harold,” she admonished.

“Listen, I’m 25, I’m basically pushing 30. Have a little mercy,” he retorted, and she threw her head back in laughter.

“Oh, and what am _I_ supposed to say then, huh?”

“Nothing,” he gave back, still smiling, his hands wandering up her warm, strong thighs that were still pinning him to the mattress from both sides. “Just kiss me, maybe.”

She looked at him for a moment, and then, in the next, she was bowing down. It was _her_ hair that collided with _his_ face this time, the vague scent of citrus and green leaves in its wake, but they manoeuvred the kiss around it, somehow, and Harry closed his eyes, let himself feel her breath and her lips on his, and it was almost perfect.

Almost.

Her thighs under his hands were just a bit too small, and her mouth was demanding, but not quite demanding enough, and she smelled just a little too much like fruit, when he was used to wood and earth, and... He couldn’t physically shake his head to dispel the thoughts, but he was doing his damnedest to kick them out anyway, kissing her harder and blocking the memories of eyes that were almost like hers and a mouth that was almost like hers and a voice that was nowhere near hers; and then, for some reason, the kiss broke, and when he looked up, she was looking down, and her smile had died on her lips.

“Camille?”

She sighed and climbed off of him, and Harry’s confusion increased exponentially as she sat down across from him on the gigantic mattress, her legs folded up beneath her, a small frown on her forehead. Harry sat up, too, his eyebrows furling. He knew that something critically important had just happened, but he wasn’t quite sure what exactly, so he waited, patiently, for her to put it into words, while his mind spun futile circles.

Finally, _finally,_ she opened her mouth to speak.

“Harry…I-“ She stopped, breathed deeply, and started anew. “I don’t know enough about you to – really make a judgement here. But. I know how I feel about you and...since this whole thing started, I've been wondering, if we’re… if we’re on the same page here.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, more for the sake of formalities than anything else. Some part of him was getting a pretty good idea of what she was on about.

“I mean. It’s not like you’re _doing_ anything wrong. At all. You’re gentle and brilliant and cool and attentive and I – I _really_ like you, Harry.”

He felt the urge to move over, stretch out his hand and touch her shoulder, tell her everything would be fine, but that had the potential to be a lie, so he didn’t do it. Instead he resorted to simply stating something he knew for a fact was true.

“I like you, too, Camille.”

“I know you do.” She tilted her head, dark blond hair shifting on her shoulder. “We wouldn’t be here, if you didn’t. But- Harry. Be honest. Please. Do you like me the same way I like you?” She paused, briefly, and Harry was scrambling for words, but then she continued, sentences nervously tumbling out of her mouth like she couldn’t stop them. “Because, and maybe that’s the problem – because I don’t feel like I know you. The real you. There are parts that you don’t let me see. And when we kiss, or make love, sometimes, like earlier, it’s like you’re slipping away, through my fingers, right in front of me. Like you’re going somewhere else, and you’re not here with me, any more. And I just don’t know why that happens. Or, well, maybe, I have an idea – that it might be because of…oh, God, it’s none of my business. But… Did the press just play that up as the greatest love story since _The Notebook_ or was it really like that? With her?”

She ruefully bit her lip as soon as the question had left her mouth, and judging by her expression she was afraid that she had opened a very inappropriate can of worms. Harry sighed, when he felt the ever-present ache in his stomach he had gotten accustomed to over the summer grow stronger. For a second he was tempted to fulfil Camille’s expectations and refuse to talk about it, but looking at her, lost and confused at the end of the bed, he knew that she deserved better.

“It was,” he said, and his voice sounded a little too raw for his liking. On the other side of the mattress, Camille swallowed visibly but her eyes were set on Harry’s, determined.

“She and I met after I hired her for a concert, last year in June. Madison Square Garden. It was probably the best show I’ve ever done. Really special. Afterwards we went out for dinner. And we - clicked. I don’t know if you remember, but around that time she had some horrible allegations from her ex to deal with? And a few weeks later-“ He stopped for a moment and cleared his throat. “-that thing in Seattle happened. So, we both had our burdens to carry. And we were there for each other. That was always our greatest asset, I think. What we were put through at the beginning of our relationship, how we handled it together, that made us very, very strong. We did the SeattleStandStrong, cut a record together and went on tour, last winter. That was one of the happiest times of my life. No strain, no burdens, just us. We made good on the honeymoon phase we hadn’t gotten at the beginning, I suppose.”

He couldn’t help but fleetingly revel in stretches of red desert flashing past the windows of their tour bus, black hair in his lap, his silver rings woven through it like stars in the night sky.

“What broke you?” Camille asked from the other side of the bed, pulling him back into the present, her voice wavering ever so slightly.

Harry huffed. “Human failure, I guess. The press were all over us after we’d gotten back and worked on our own projects again, each. I’ve been used to that sort of attention, ever since I started dating. I think she wasn’t. Not in that capacity. When we were touring we could climb into the bus and just get away from it. But try doing that when you’re stuck in NYC.” He laughed, mirthlessly. “She told me. Before they’d even caught wind of us in the first place. That she was scared of the attention. Maybe I was too optimistic about us to see how much she couldn’t take it. That whole thing with her ex and how the Internet came down on her back then…I think that was a trauma for her that I didn’t see. And that was probably the real reason for...you know. She didn’t tell me there was a problem, and I didn’t ask her, and we started fighting about small, unimportant things that had nothing to do with anything. As if we had completely unlearned how to talk to each other. And then. We broke up. In March.”

He leaned back against the headboard and surveyed Camille’s expression. She was obviously shaken, but she wasn’t crying, and she hadn’t left yet, either, which he counted as a good sign.

“So – none of you ever did something really terrible. Like cheat. Or lie. Or…or stop loving the other,” she finally spoke into the silence.

It wasn’t a question, but Harry shook his head nevertheless.

Camille nodded thoughtfully. “It’s no wonder then.”

“What isn’t?”

She looked straight at him and there was something small and hurt in her eyes that she didn’t quite manage to hide. “None of you ever did or said anything despicable. You never ruined it beyond redemption. How could you be over her?”

“I am.”

Camille raised her eyebrows and Harry swallowed his justifications.

“I’m trying to.”

“It’s not in your hands to stop loving someone. It’s not _your_ decision to make,” Camille gave back, and the words sounded almost soft.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s not your fault that I’m not the right girl for you.” The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and he wasn’t able to speak for a few seconds. Camille smiled sadly, unfolded her legs and got up, off the bed, where she started to collect her things and put her clothes back on. Harry hurried to get to his feet as well, even though he wasn’t quite sure what to do. He knew that she was right about him, had maybe known it for too long, had seen this thing between them end the exact way it was ending now, but he couldn’t just sit there and watch.

“You _are_ the right girl for me, Camille,” he said, firmly, stepping up to her as she was putting on her pullover. She pulled her hair out of the collar, a quick movement, and looked at him. The sad smile hadn’t left her lips, and now there was wetness in the corners of her eyes, too.

“Maybe I could have been,” she gave back.

And that was it. She'd made up her mind. No point in pretending otherwise.

She put on the rest of her clothes in silence, and Harry accompanied her to the door when she was done. He wasn’t sure whether she would say goodbye to him, but standing in the doorframe, she did turn around and look at him once again.

“Promise me one thing, Harry. You’ve been honest with me. Be just as honest with yourself, okay? And try to be the happiest you can.” She was very, very close to crying now, and Harry couldn’t watch it, so he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her for a long, long moment. When he let go, he could feel tears burning in his eyes.

“You, too,” he said, his voice raw. “Be happy. If anyone of us deserves it, it’s you.”

She grinned at him, suddenly, unexpectedly, through the tears. “You know, Harry Styles, in another universe? The two of us, we could have really been something.”

“Yeah. We could have.”

Camille nodded, and then she turned around, walked down the stairs and out of his life. She didn’t look back.


	2. Nobody Ever Like Her

“You really need to mingle, girl. It’s like you’ve disappeared! Every important party in New York I’ve been to in the last months, you haven’t. And you _live_ there, for God’s sake.”

Perrie bowed forward, her half-empty _Cosmo_ precariously dangling between her ring-adorned fingers, one of which was pointing at Tris in an accusatory manner. “And you’ve lost weight.”

Tris raised her eyebrows. “Not like I couldn’t spare it.”

Perrie looked almost offended. “Never say anything like that ever again! Your curves are everything, Tris! Your trademark! You are _not_ going Size Zero over night, and certainly not over a _man_ of all things.” Perrie leaned back in the white leather chair she was currently occupying, still enraged. She had more or less steered Tris into the first available of the four spacious bedrooms of her townhouse in Surrey directly upon arrival for a private chat, away from the party downstairs; and Tris had immediately regretted that her conscience had forced her to take Perrie’s invitation in the first place. She didn’t want to talk about Harry. Not to Perrie. Not to her Mum _._ Not to _anyone_ , preferably. But she hadn’t had it in her to blow her friend off, either, not with that look of honest worry on her face, so she’d put up a brave front and decided to listen to what she had to say.

“It’s only four pounds. And I’m doing better, Perrie. I just need a little more time.”

“Bullshit.” Perrie brushed her off. “ _Needing time_? That’s not showing up to any social occasions for a month, maybe. Two, and that’s already a stretch. But _six_? That’s half a year of your life! That’s not _needing time_! That’s unhealthy, Tris.”

“I’m here tonight, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, because I made you feel bad when you refused to come.” Perrie glared at her and Tris swallowed. She wasn’t wrong.

“Listen.” Perrie set her glass aside onto the mahogany table next to them and took Tris’ hands in hers. “I’ve been through something very similar. Uglier, even. When Zayn and I split – he wasn’t exactly a gentleman about it, you know? And I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die. But my girls-“ There was a spark, shimmering in her blue eyes, fiery and strong, and Tris reflexively grasped her hands tighter. “My girls didn’t let me down. They helped me get out of there. I regained my energy. And then, instead of sad, suddenly I was angry, and I let the world hear it. Wrote a few songs about my situation. Hits, even. It felt good every time I sang them on stage. And after a while it got better. What I’m saying is, well, maybe… Maybe it’s time for you to get angry, too, huh?”

Tris squeezed Perrie’s hands and gave her a remorseful smile. “I can’t. I can’t be mad at him. If anything, he has every right to be mad at _me._ ”

“Stop feeling guilty about it, Tris! This is not your fault, okay?”

Tris bit her lip. “Thank you, Perrie. I know you mean it, and I know I can count on you. It’s only that…this whole thing…I think you can’t help me here. I need to help myself. And I don’t know how long it’s going to take until I’m over it, but I _promise_ I’ll stop cutting myself off. You’re right. I need to mingle.”

Perrie sighed and let go of her. “I have to be honest, girl, that’s not the sentence I wanted to hear, but it’s better than nothing.” She stretched out the little finger of her right hand, two sparkling silver rings circling it, her expression fierce and serious. “Pinky swear that you’ll show up to parties.”

Tris smiled and curled her own little finger around Perrie’s. “I solemnly pinky swear that I’ll show up to parties.”

“Good. And now let’s get you some alcohol.”

Perrie stood up, grabbed her cocktail glass and pulled Tris with her, out of the room and down the stairs. The music and voices were getting louder and Tris recognised the song that was currently playing.

“ _I Want To Break Free_? Really?”

“I personally put that on the playlist,” Perrie said, clearly proud of herself, as they entered the living room. There were a lot of people in various states of drunkenness, and Tris recognised some familiar faces, even said _Hi_ a few times, as Perrie unerringly guided her to the bar.

“Would you mix a Mojito for the lady? Strong?” she asked the barkeeper she’d apparently hired specifically for this evening – and not just for his bar keeping qualities alone, judging by his muscular frame, baby-blue eyes and perfectly symmetrical face.

“His name is Eric,” Perrie whispered, as if she’d read Tris’ thoughts. “Which is funny because he does look a little bit like Prince Eric in The Little Mermaid. And his boss assured me that he makes mean cocktails. So I hired him.”

“Only for the bar?”

Perrie gave a mock-indignated sound. “What kind of girl do you take me for?”

“The kind of girl who hires a barman because he looks like a Disney prince?”

“Point taken,” her friend gave back, and in the next moment they both started giggling uncontrollably. “Gosh, Tris, I’ve missed you,” Perrie stated, after dabbing a few laughing tears out of her eyes.

“Mojito?” Prince Eric said, and Tris took the glass from his hands with a grateful nod, still grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Perrie! Perrie!” A loud, female voice sounded from the other side of the room, and a pretty, tall, blonde girl waved her hands erratically in their direction. Judging by the coat on her she was just about to leave, and Perrie sighed. “Sorry, I need to see Anita out. Back in a sec!” She gave Tris a small smile, before making her way over through the crowd.

Tris took a long pull from her Mojito and looked around, in search of a familiar face in her vicinity. She was sure she’d seen Jesy on the way here, and she hadn’t talked to her in quite a while, so it would be nice to… Her eyes coincidentally grazed a shock of hair that was all too familiar, right across the room, sending her pulse skyrocketing. No, it couldn’t – could it? Looking closer she saw that she was not mistaken. Niall Horan was standing just next to the fireplace. And he was looking right at her.

She put her cocktail glass down on the bar and turned around as fast as she could, her flight instinct taking control. There was no way she was going to talk to Niall, _none._ Pushing through the people, Tris desperately hoped that he hadn’t seen her, or, well, or that he at least didn’t want to talk to her as much as she didn’t want to talk to him, but she was going to make damn sure of not running into him, anyway. Her feet carried her over to the door that connected the living room to the torch-lit patio, slightly left ajar for smokers and people who needed to catch air. _I need to catch air_ , Tris thought and stepped outside into the night.

It was unusually cold for September, which was probably why no one else was here, and Tris shivered a little in her small, black Dolce dress, but the air helped clear her thoughts and take them off the terrifying possibility of having to explain to Niall… Well, what exactly? It wasn’t like he could hold her accountable for anything, could he? Why did she feel like she needed to explain anything to him at all? _In five years I’ve never seen him look at anybody like he’s looking at you._

Tris crossed her arms in front of her chest and did her best to ignore her own thoughts.

“Did you just run away from me?”

She jerked violently and spun around so fast that she nearly fell over.

“That was a yes,” Niall said. He was standing right behind her, his bleached hair a fashionable mess on top of his head, dressed in a plaid shirt and a pair of light blue jeans.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Tris demanded.

“I got an invitation. From Perrie. For a small party among friends.”

“No, no, I mean what are you doing- Why are you _following_ me?”

Niall tilted his head. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Well…” Tris swallowed hard, and decided in a matter of milliseconds that, in this case, being rude was better than having to talk. “Maybe I don’t want to talk to you. Ever considered that?”

Niall didn’t look offended at all. His eyes were very soft as he walked up to her and Tris’ hands started shaking. She gripped her own upper arms strong enough for it to hurt and clenched her jaw.

“Then, don’t talk. Just listen?” Niall proposed.

Tris took her eyes off his face and demonstratively turned away, staring straight ahead over Perrie’s spacious hillside garden into the night sky.

“I’m not going to talk about anything that’s none of my business. But we used to be friends, Tris. What happened? Have I done anything wrong?”

“No, Niall. You haven’t,” she managed.

There was a lump in her throat, and that was the last thing she needed right now, but forcing it down wasn’t working.

“Then – please, Tris. Just, please." His voice sounded sincerely pleading, with an edge of desperation to it that made Tris' stomach churn. "Tell me why. Because I think you’re a wonderful person and I’m at a loss as to why you’ve stopped answering my messages.”

Slowly Tris turned her head towards him. There was water in her eyes now, and she knew he could see it, even in the scarce light of the torches in the grass; but she couldn’t do this, not to Niall. Her friend, Niall, who deserved better. “You’re a wonderful person, too, Niall,” she gave back. “It's just that…it hurts. Seeing you, writing to you and all the while knowing that I failed you. I thought it better to see myself out of your life.”

Niall’s eyes went wide in shock and a warm hand grabbed her shoulder. “No. No, no, no, hold on, why would you believe that you _failed_ me. Tris. What the hell makes you think that?”

Tris shook her head. “You…you kept telling me I’m the one for him. That I deserved him. And now…”

Niall made a step to the side, so he could look right at her and gripped both of her arms with his hands, a seriousness in his eyes she wasn’t used to. “Tris. We are friends. Harry and you, that has nothing to do with it. You didn’t fail me, just because the two of you didn’t work out. You never failed me. Ever. And I don't want you out of my life! Do you understand that?”

Tris nodded and did her best to hold back the tears; but then a gust of wind pushed the glass door to the living room open a bit further, just enough to carry music to her ear, music she knew too well – _And through it all she offers me protection… –_ and she lost it. Tears started rolling down her face, too many to stop them, blinding her and forcing harsh sobs from her throat. Immediately Niall’s arms were around her, warm and safe, and Tris cried into the collar of his shirt while he helplessly stroked her hair.

“Shhhh. Shhhh. It’s going to be fine. It’s all going to be fine.”

She managed to pull herself together some by the time the song ended, so much that she was able to break away from Niall’s embrace.

“Sorry,” she said, glumly, wiping the tears off her face with her thumbs.

Niall shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry about. Also-“ He seemed to consider very thoroughly what he was going to say next. “It’s not like you’re the only one.”

Tris felt her stomach shrink in on itself. “You mean...Harry?”

Niall didn’t say anything but the look in his eyes made it evident that she was right.

Her next words left her mouth without her doing, like they’d been waiting to get out for quite some time. “I never wanted him to suffer. I hoped…I hoped he would be happy by now, you know?”

There was something very sad in Niall’s gaze when he answered. “He hopes the same for you, Tris. He really does.”

That nearly brought her to tears again, but this time she managed to force them down, distracted herself by asking another question, one that had been bothering her for more than a year. “Why did you ask me, Niall? Of all things, why did you ask me _that_? Back in Seattle.”

“Ask you what?”

Tris closed her eyes for a second, before she could get the words out. “Why did you ask me if I loved him?”

Niall sighed and looked into the night for a few long moments. When he turned back to her, his eyes were soft, without sadness. “Because, Tris, as stupid and old as that sounds, it really is the only thing that matters. I just wanted to know, if that was what it was for you. And for Harry.”

Tris frowned. “You mean…you…”

“I asked him, too, yes. The same day as you.”

“I was convinced you’d only asked me. To make sure I was serious about him.”

Niall laughed. “You're not wrong. He’s my mate, of course I wanted to make sure you meant it. But I wanted to hear how he felt about you, all the same. From him.”

Tris had to ask. There was no way around it. “What did he say?”

Niall looked at her, an unreadable expression in his blue eyes, before he gave an answer. “ _Nobody ever like her._ ”

She couldn’t breathe for a moment or two, the world spinning around her like the contents of a snow globe, while the words burned themselves into her skull, searing hot metal letters in her mind’s eye. _Nobody ever like her. Nobody. Nobody ever. Nobody ever ever ever. Nobody. Ever. Like. Her._

“I didn’t… I shouldn’t have told you,” Niall said, an apology in his voice.

Tris shook her head. “No, no. It’s okay. It’s fine.”

Niall’s hand was on her shoulder again, stabilising her, pulling her back to earth. “He still gets to you. Even now.”

Tris didn’t say anything to that. There was no point in denying the obvious.

“The thing about love…” Niall said into the silence, his words gentle like his fingers through the fabric on her shoulder. “Is that you can’t choose who you love. Which means, you can’t choose who you don’t love, or who you stop loving, either. It’s not your decision to make. So – no reason to beat yourself up over it. Accept it. That’s really the only thing you can do. Accept it, and then move on.”

Tris managed a small smile in his direction. “Spoken like a true philosopher.”

Niall grinned at her. “Nah. I’ve read a few too many romance novels in my life, that’s all.” Then he sighed, deeply. “Care for a cocktail? I believe you’ve left yours behind when you fled the scene before. And I sure could use one.”

Her smile grew. “You know what? That’s a fantastic idea.”


	3. Bad Press For Breakfast

Tris woke up with a start at the noise of a door being slammed, followed by fast, muffled steps down a flight of stairs.

In the next moment she already wished she hadn’t. Her head was aching, her mouth dry, the blanket around her too warm, and the bad taste in her mouth did nothing to cheer her up. It took her a while to blink her eyelids open over her weirdly scratchy corneae, and when she could finally see something, it took her even longer to find her bearings.

The pale parquet, white leather, grey walls and modern wooden furniture around her was unfamiliar to her at first glance, and she was left clueless for a minute, before her memory of last night finally started to kick in. It came back to her in incomplete, frayed flashbacks: Drinking Mojitos with Niall, laughing, being admonished by Perrie not to go home in her current state, being propped up by strong hands and guided to a room, this room, apparently, all the while giggling like a maniac, being ridded of her shoes, tucked into a soft bed, and then falling asleep with one last, far-away thought of taking off her make-up.

“Jesus, why am I doing this to myself?” Tris muttered upon lifting the light grey blanket surrounding her and taking a look at the thoroughly crumpled fabric of her evening dress beneath. Her voice sounded rough and foreign to her ears, and every movement sent a sharp burst of pain to her head. Only a second after making that observation she spotted a bottle of _Evian_ and a box of _Nurofen_ on the nightstand next to her like a granted wish, put there by somebody who, in her opinion, deserved an award for their charitable donations. She grabbed both, popped three pills at once and greedily gulped half the bottle down in one swig.

Her next ten minutes were spent staring at the ceiling and waiting for the _Nurofen_ to set in, sipping away at the rest of the water. She hoped that Amanda wasn’t worrying about her too much; she had definitely been too drunk to have left her a message about staying over at Perrie’s, and that sort of thing tended to get her Mum nervous. Thinking of messages – where had she put her phone again? Tris sat up straighter; and when that only awarded her with a dull sensation in her head instead of debilitating pain, she felt brave enough to swing her feet over the edge of the bed, get up and start looking for the device.

Her search was called off nearly immediately; from a standing perspective she spotted her tiny handbag on the white leather chair across the room straight away. Next to it lay her phone, carefully plugged into a charger, placed on top of a small heap of clean, neatly folded clothing – leggings, underwear and a white sweater, apparently taken out of Perrie’s wardrobe for borrowing purposes.

“How do I even deserve you as a friend?” Tris murmured to herself, and a small wave of remorse flooded her stomach. She hadn’t been a very good friend in the last six months herself, giving Perrie every reason to bail on her. It meant a great deal that she’d done the exact opposite, and these small acts of kindness reminded Tris of that fact. _I need to get better,_ she thought. _I really need to. Not just for my sake._

She marched over and picked up her phone, and – lo and behold – her mother had called six times since 9.30 am. Now it was 10.46. Tris really hoped Amanda hadn’t brought the Secret Service to the scene yet. With an unhappy noise she quick-dialled the landline of her home in Salisbury. It rang exactly one time, before her Mum picked up.

“Beatrice? God, I was worried! Why aren’t you answering your phone? Are you alright?”

“Mum, relax. I’m still at Perrie’s. I wasn’t exactly apt to make the trip back to Salisbury yesterday, and I just woke up. I’ll try and be home in the afternoon, okay?”

A sigh of relief sounded down the line. “Good. Should I wait with lunch?”

Tris’ insides seemed to shrivel up at the mere mention of food. “No. No, I’m…fine.”

Her Mum chuckled knowingly on the other end. “I see. Well, 'til later then, love!”

“Later, Ma.”

Tris hung up, opened WhatsApp and scrolled through her message feed. As it turned out Eva Sinclair wanted to drag her out for coffee next Friday, her old friend Annabel was complaining about relationship troubles, her aunt was asking her about taking tea downtown soon and Callie, her manager, wanted her to call her back about something seemingly fairly important. Tris closed her phone screen without typing any sort of reply. She desperately needed to shower, brush her teeth and give Perrie the biggest hug of her life. Everybody else would have to wait.

 

 

***

 

 

When she finally made it down the stairs it was almost half past eleven, and Tris felt like a completely new person. The borrowed underwear, leggings, socks and sweater fit her perfectly, her faintly wet, braided hair smelled pleasantly green-tea-ish (Perrie had a fantastic shampoo) and her skin was make-up-less and clean again. Somebody had diligently cleaned the living room, and miraculously eradicated all traces of the party that had taken place here only a few hours ago: The pillows on the large couch had been arranged to perfection, the floors were cleared of the remnants of at least a hundred pair of street shoes, the glass tables reflected the midday sunlight streaming in through the expansive window front, and a few candles next to the empty fireplace were emitting the warm scent of cedar wood and spices. For a moment Tris thought that Perrie might have gone out; just before she heard low voices and the clatter of cutlery on plates from the kitchen that was connected to the living room by a small corridor to Tris’ right. She walked straight towards the noises, but when she reached the corridor, she overheard a few words of the conversation going on inside that stopped her dead in her tracks.

“… I’ll kick their arse straight across the bleedin’ pond. I can’t believe somebody would do that at _my_ party!” That was clearly Perrie’s voice. Her Northern accent was a lot more distinct than usual, but that tended to happen when she was upset or angry. Right now she seemed to be both.

“It sucks,” a male voice with a small Irish lilt answered. “I’d be mad, too.”

_Niall?_

“Fuck, honestly, I’m so sorry. That sort of thing – you came here feeling safe, and now _that’s_ out, and people will get the wrong idea, and it’s _my fault_ that you have the _Sun_ on your perky arse! And not just you…what is _she_ going to say, Niall? The first party in six months, the first time she’s let loose, and something like _that_ happens!”

A disquieting feeling settled in Tris’ abdomen, but instead of walking in and demanding an explanation, she remained in her position and kept straining her ears.

“Not your fault, Perrie. Really not. Stop apologising. Oh, and thank you for the compliment about my bum. I appreciate it.” There was a pause, interspersed with soft laughter on Perrie’s part, before Niall continued. “It’s not a problem, really. They’ve written so much worse about me… But, yeah, I’m kind of worried about her, too. She’s had it rough with the press, and some of them still hate her guts for no good reason. They seem to be all too ready to present her as some kind of man-eater. Which is the exact opposite of who she actually is.”

 _What the hell?_ , Tris thought, but she didn’t have time to ponder about what could possibly have happened, because the conversation in the next room went on to another interesting topic.

“You two talked yesterday, didn’t you?” Perrie’s voice had a clear edge of curiosity to it.

Another pause.

“We reconciled,” Niall gave back. “She’d put our friendship on ice because she thought I didn’t want her in my life any more after Harry, and I talked her out of blaming herself, just before we decided to get hammered together. Nothing else happened on that patio. Just for the record.”

Perrie sighed deeply. “She does that a lot, doesn’t she? Blame herself?”

Tris swallowed hard.

“Too much. Which is just marvellous, because I have Harry in L.A. who’s being equally stupid. When will the two of them finally grasp the concept that it’s not their fault. Sometimes it’s just circumstance and you can’t do a bloody thing.”

“Yeah. You’re right, of course. But I’ve been through this with Zayn, and I kind of get it. You try reasoning with yourself, but there’s that small part that doesn’t want to listen to reason at all. Although, hang on…I thought Harry had moved on, at least? There was a new girlfriend rumoured? Victoria’s Secret model? Camille…something?”

“Yeah. Camille Rowe. Clever girl, gentle, lovely. I think she might be good for him.”

“That’s something,” Perrie gave back, relief in her voice. “Gives me hope for Tris, too.”

Tris noticed just then that her jaw had clenched up during the last few seconds of the conversation. With decisiveness she straightened her back and started walking. It was about time to stop being the fly on the wall.

When she rounded the corner into the kitchen she found Perrie and Niall, sitting opposite each other on the long wooden table, a pair of half-empty green smoothies and porridge bowls in front of them.

“Hey,” she said, and managed to put a smile on her face.

“Tris!” Perrie smiled back at her, but Tris spotted an unusual uneasiness in her expression.

“Morning,” Niall said and patted on the chair next to him. He was wearing the same outfit he’d worn yesterday, but he hadn’t been drunk enough to sleep in it, like Tris, going by the un-crumpledness of his shirt. “Have a seat. D’you want something to eat?”

“Oh, I’ll pass, thanks. Any type of food right now will make me eat backwards.”

She sat down and looked at Perrie. “Thank you so, so much for the _Nurofen,_ Perrie. And the water. And the charger. And the clothes. You veritably saved my life this morning.”

“You’re welcome, Tris. Any time, and any time again.” Her smile was clearly wavering now and Tris blinked at her in half-played, half-honest confusion. She had an inkling as to what might have happened to get the _Sun_ on “Niall’s perky arse” (and on hers as well, apparently) but she was still oblivious regarding the details. “Is something the matter? You look – worried, Perrie.”

Perrie visibly gulped, but didn’t say anything right away.

“Yes. Actually…somebody took photos yesterday evening,” Niall answered for her, his tone of voice a little wary. “We both don’t know who it could have been.”

Tris turned to him, frowning. “Photos of what, exactly?”

He sighed. “Perrie, just get it over with and show her.” His hand landed on Tris’ forearm. “It’s the _Sun,_ Tris _._ They are obviously full of shit, as always. In a week everyone will have forgotten about this.”

Perrie shoved a tablet over the table with a deeply apologetic expression on her face, and Tris took a look at the website she’d opened up:

 

**_Gotta Catch ‘Em All – Singer And Infamous Harry-Styles-Ex Tris Callahan Spotted In Compromising Position With 1D-Colleague, Hottie Niall Horan, At Little Mix House Party_ **

_Having a steamy, short-lived relationship with superstar Harry Styles doesn’t seem to have been enough for singer Tris Callahan, who faced adultery claims by her ex-ex-beau Jim Masters in court only a year ago. Last night she was spotted at a private house party thrown by Little Mix’s Perrie Edwards where she was getting intimate with Harry’s 1D-colleague Niall Horan [see photos below]. How must Harry feel about that? Are Louis and Liam next? Tris’ colourful history with men makes one suspect that-_

Tris stopped reading and scrolled down to the photos. They were of mediocre quality, obviously taken with a phone camera, and in parts reflecting light, like they had been taken through a glass panel. The people on them were easily identifiable, though: Tris’ figure and Niall’s hair were distinct, and the reporter who’d written the article wasn’t wrong – they were obviously sharing a moment on Perrie’s patio, Niall’s hands on Tris’ arms, and then a long, heartfelt hug between them, their features partially illuminated by the torches in the grass. It looked intimate, even intimate enough to give the wrong impression, if one _wanted_ it to give the wrong impression, and Tris put the tablet away with a long-suffering sigh. “Bad press for breakfast? This is becoming a pattern. Also – _adultery claims_? Seriously? What time do we live in, the fucking fifties?”

“I’m so sorry, Tris,” Perrie said, sadness in her voice. “I didn’t – when I invite people to my house, I presume that they are trustworthy. I can’t believe somebody did that to you. At my party, of all places. But I promise you, I’m going to find them, and I’m going to put their name all over social media. Whoever that was.”

Tris instinctually reached over the table and took hold of Perrie’s hand. “This is not on you, Perrie. It could have happened anywhere. General risk of being famous. _The one thing they love more than loving you is finding a reason to hate you,_ that’s what Callie always says. And, really, I’ve had way worse than this.”

Perrie’s face showed a good deal of relief mixed with surprise. “You’re not mad at me?”

“How could I be mad at the person who saved my life this morning, over something as insignificant as this?”

Perrie let go of her, got up, rounded the table and pulled Tris into a long hug, right there in her sitting position. Tris fiercely hugged back.

“Are you okay, Niall?”, she asked when they had finally let go of each other, throwing him a glance.

He nodded. “I’ve had worse with the press, too. And, really, if I’m being linked to any woman on this planet, you’re not the worst I could do.”

That earned him a poke between his ribs, courtesy of Perrie who was hovering over him. “She’s the _best_ you could bloody well do, Horan.”

“Luckily,” Tris interjected. “That’s not up for debate. But thank you, Niall, I appreciate the compliment you clearly intended to make me.”

“See?” Niall said. “It _was_ a compliment.”

Perrie was still somewhat glaring at him as she walked back around the table to her original place. “A negative compliment. I thought you were better than that.”

Niall sighed.

In the next moment he got up and went straight to his knees right in front of Tris. “I’m sorry, Tris, for making you a negative compliment. You are a beautiful woman, and clearly the best I could do, if I liked you in a non-platonic-way, which I don’t, which means that this is actually not up for debate, but I’m on my knees anyway so Perrie will stop glowering at me. Do you accept my deepest, most heartfelt apologies. Please?”

Tris had started grinning about halfway through his monologue, and she could see that Perrie wasn’t faring any better on the other side of the table. When he was finished Tris put her hand on his shoulder. “I accept your apologies, Niall, even though they were completely unnecessary. And I think you can get up again. Perrie isn’t mad any more.”

Niall laughed, patted Tris’ thigh, stood up and sat back down in his chair; but Perrie’s expression had turned serious again. “That’s where you’re wrong, sweetie. I’m still _very_ mad, I just don’t know who to direct it at. Do you have any idea who could have taken the photos? Because I’ve been wrecking my brains and I don’t know who of my friends would want to risk our friendship for a cheap deal with the most sucky tabloid in the whole of England.”

Tris bit her lip and contemplated Perrie’s question for a few moments, before, suddenly, an idea sprang to her mind. “What if it wasn’t one of your friends?”

Perrie frowned. “I’ve only invited friends.”

“No, you haven’t. What about service? The waiters with the flying buffet, for example? Or-“

“Prince Eric!” Perrie’s eyes went wide with shock.

“Who?” Niall asked.

Tris sucked in a breath. “Of course! He saw me slamming my glass down on his bar when I spotted Niall and left for the patio. And Niall went after me, Eric must have seen him, too, and known something interesting was up. Easy enough to excuse himself from the bar for a few minutes and take scandalous pictures.”

Perrie had pulled the tablet closer and opened her facebook where she feverishly started typing in letters.

“Who the hell is Prince Eric?” Niall repeated towards Tris, more quietly.

“The bartender. Eric. Perrie just called him _Prince_ Eric, because he looks like Prince Eric from _The Little Mermaid_.”

Niall raised his eyebrows. “Is that why she hired him for the bar?”

“Yes. Among other things.”

“What other things?”

Tris was just about to make a snide remark about his curiosity in relation to Perrie’s taste in men, when Perrie let out a furious noise. “That _fucker_!”

“What?” Tris and Niall asked in unison.

Perrie looked up, anger in her beautiful face. “He’s pretty but not very clever. Posted the article on his facebook and commented with _Copyright: Eric Prinsen_ right above it _._ ”

“His name is _not_ Prinsen”, Tris gave back, incredulously, but Perrie wasn’t listening any more. She’d gotten up, tablet in hand and was leaving for the living room. “I need to make a few calls,” was the last thing she said, in passing.

Niall and Tris looked at each other.

“His name is _not_ Prinsen,” Tris reiterated. “I love irony, but that’s just taking things a little too far.”

Niall nodded gravely. “It is. But whatever his surname, Prince Eric will find himself in a lot of trouble. Did you see Perrie’s face just now? The word _trouble_ might actually not be strong enough for his situation.”

“Yeah,” Tris said, slowly. “You don’t piss off Perrie Edwards in her own house.”

“And you don’t fuck with her friends,” Niall added.

Tris felt a smile spread on her face that she soon found mirrored within Niall’s features. “No. No, you really don’t fuck with her friends.”


	4. Investiture Controversy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't even know how much fun I had writing this chapter. Set-up for drama, here we go.

The one-and-a-half-hour-cab-drive from Perrie’s home in Surrey back to her Mum’s house in Salisbury provided the perfect backdrop for answering all of her messages and tending to her social media, while the peaceful greenness of her homeland rushed past the windows. Tris had prescribed herself furlough, so to speak, after having had a mild mental breakdown in her apartment in New York City a couple of weeks ago, when the pain of her break-up had still been fresher and her first attempts at creating new music had ended in nothing but sleeplessness and writer’s block. Callie wasn’t too happy about this situation, but she obviously cared about Tris enough to want to give her time to recollect herself. They weren’t on a schedule for Tris’ next album, not yet, not really, and Callie had to be taking the fact that Tris had started writing music again on her Mum’s old piano as a sign that her “holiday” in England was getting her somewhere.

For Tris, though, “getting somewhere” hadn’t been the primary goal at all. What she had wanted most of all was to get away, away from New York City, whose atmosphere had become unbearable with time, weighing down on her more every day she’d spent there trying to access her creative source and failing miserably; away from the memory of Harry that was scattered between the skyscrapers of downtown, stuck to the walls of each restaurant and bar they’d ever visited together, plastered to the ceiling of Tris’ apartment; away from the press and its hounds.

Salisbury was everything New York wasn’t, and it was exactly what Tris needed. She had spent a lot of time here alone or with her Mum, but she’d also met up with a few old friends from school, and with some of her relatives, too. Of all people, Eva Sinclair, Jim’s ex who had helped Tris win her case against him in court more than a year ago, had shown up on her doorstep one day with a massive gift basket; and somehow, that same afternoon, complaining about their mutual ex had turned into talking about God, the world and everything in between, which in turn had led to finding out that they had pretty much the same dry sense of humour. Tris thanked Jim, albeit grudgingly, for indirectly acquainting her with Eva, who she considered her friend now, weekly coffee dates and all.

So, yes, Tris’ life in Salisbury was strikingly mundane, mostly consisting of housework, afternoon tea, talks with her Mum, playing with their cats, piano sessions, Netflix and long walks through the outskirts of town. Tris was more than glad for it.

The message that suddenly lit up her phone screen pulled her out of her contemplations:

 

_See ya for coffee at Costa, Friday 4 pm then :D_

Tris sent a few happy emojis back to Eva and marked the date in her electronic calendar. There was one more bullet point on her to-do-list for today now – and that was calling Callie.

“Just do it and have it done,” Tris murmured to herself, and dialled the number.

It rang three times before Callie picked up.

“Hello, Tris. How are you doing?”

Tris’ manager didn’t call very often these days, once a week, maximum, for a quick status update and a few pleasantries. It was obvious that she didn’t know what to talk about when she couldn’t talk about work, and therefore their conversations were usually short and a little awkward.

“I’m fine, thank you. Is this about the _Sun-_ article? I haven’t hooked up with Niall, just for your information.”

“I’ve read it. Complete bullshit, obviously. But I see you found out who took those photos? It’s all over social media, a certain _Eric Prinsen_ by name? He’s not having a particularly fun day as far as I can see.”

Tris felt a slow smile spread all over her face. “No, he sure isn’t. Perrie has taken him to task and it’s going down. She was _furious_.”

Callie laughed down the line. “Oh, I imagine. Poor guy. But…” She cleared her throat. “…that’s not actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She didn’t carry on, and Tris knew, right then, that something was up. Callie wasn’t shy or careful about anything. She usually straight-up spit out the information she had, however inconvenient. Hearing her hesitate was dangerously out of character.

“What is it, Callie? Come on now, tell me.”

Callie cleared her throat _again_ , and Tris started fidgeting in her seat.

“You might not like this,” her manager finally stated.

“I figured. Spill it.”

“Look…there’s this thing that you British do. You knight people. _Order of the British Empire_ and all that. I’ve googled it, didn’t know a thing about it myself, but it turns out, the knighting or, how they call it, _Investiture_ is a massive, _massive_ social occasion every year. They get all the people that are going to be knighted together in the biggest room of Buckingham Palace, and there’s dinner and music and...well, it’s pretty significant and there are a few pretty significant people there, usually.”

“O-kay,” Tris said when Callie paused. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out what her manager was rambling about; the information she was getting seemed random at best: Knighting ceremonies? The Queen? Buckingham Palace?

  
“During the ceremony there’s this military marching band,” Callie continued. “But afterwards there’s a ball, and they usually hire a modern musical act to play a few songs as a break from the classical dance music. You never hear about it in the press, because the press is not invited to that kind of gathering, but a few really famous people have sung at these ceremonies: The Beatles, before they were knighted themselves, Kate Bush, Elton John – obviously –, Robbie Williams, Amy Winehouse, Ed Sheeran… The list goes on. I think the only requirements for getting the job are that you’re British and good at making music.”

Slowly, but surely, Tris started to understand what her manager was trying to tell her. “So – they invited me to sing there?”

“Yes. Sort of. Well. I received a call this morning, from a very official-sounding Englishman, explaining that whole ceremony-business to me and informing me that a personal written invitation was on the way. Her Majesty, the Queen, – God, I can’t believe I’m saying this to you – anyway, Her Majesty, the Queen of England wishes for a certain musical act to perform at the knighting on Saturday, November 30th. Having been, as he put it, deeply moved by your joint performance at SeattleStandsStrong roughly a year ago, Her Majesty wants Ms Tris Callahan and Mr Harry Styles to perform a few pieces together for this year’s _Investiture_.”

Silence fell.

Then Tris started laughing. “You’re joking,” she managed after half a minute of gasping for breath through fits of uncontrollable giggles.

“I’m not joking, Tris,” Callie replied calmly.

Tris’ laughter ran dry in her throat in the matter of half a second.

“Well... No! I’m not performing with Harry! How can _Her Majesty_ be serious about this. Our fucking breakup was all over the news! We haven’t performed on a stage together for more than half a year! Why does she want us now, not last year, but now, and why at such short notice?”

“I have no idea, Tris. None. Really. That man on the phone, he didn’t say anything. Believe me, I tried. I’m very good at acquiring information, but the information I’ve forwarded to you just now is all I got. That and…well. The amount they are going to pay you.”

“Pay me?” Tris couldn’t stop the pitch of her voice from climbing higher, incredulous. This whole conversation was getting more and more ridiculous.

“Yes. Your artist’s fee. One million pound. For the both of you. Which makes half a million pound for you alone. For one little concert.”

“That’s _insane._ ”

“It is. But that’s what they’re offering.”

Tris leaned back in her seat and started biting at her nails, staring out at the sunlit fields and trees flying by the car.

“I’m still not performing,” she said down the line, while part of her brain supplied her with the helpful information that she’d just been offered no less than two times the worth of her mother’s house in cash.

Callie huffed. It sounded considerably annoyed. “Because of Harry? You’ll have to see him for rehearsals for two weeks and then once more for the concert. Strictly professional. No need to talk about anything private.”

Tris shook her head. “That’s not how it works, Callie, and you know it. The stuff we’ve written together, there’s nothing professional about it. I can’t _make_ it professional. And I just- I can’t _do_ that with him any more. Don’t you understand that? Even at the risk of pissing off my monarch, I’m not putting myself through that. I’ll gladly go to the Tower for a week or so, as long as I don’t have to sing.”

“Stop being so dramatic, Tris. Do you know how many actors there are who _hate_ each other and still make great movies together? Who clench their teeth and just get through playing lovers and friends and family every day for years, sometimes, despite wanting to kill each other on the regular; and still something good comes of it?”

“I’m not performing.”

Callie sighed in desperation. “Christ, Tris, you only answer to force, don’t you? I hate to tell you, but you have no choice in the matter. I’ve notified _Columbia Records_ and they demand you sing on basis of your contract with them. If you don’t, they’re going to let you go and you’ll have to pay the penalty, too.”

“YOU WHAT?!”

That had been loud enough to alert the cab driver, whose brown eyes were now curiously staring at her in the rear-view mirror; and Tris struggled to lower her voice. “You underhand – I don’t _believe_ it! What kind of management is that? You’ll just _force_ me?”

“Shout at me all you want, that’s how it is. You need to grow up, Tris. Just because you’re an international superstar doesn’t mean we all cater to your sensitivities. There’s a lot of money on the table here, and _Columbia_ wants its due. You’ve signed a contract. Deal with it.”

“I’m not asking you to cater to my sensitivities, I’m asking you to respect my innermost boundaries, but apparently you’re not even capable of that!” Tris whisper-shouted down the line. “I’m human, you know, not just a chess piece you can shove around on a board however you see fit! And, by the way, have you thought about what’s going to happen, if Harry says no? He has his own record company, which means you can’t force _him._ ”

“Harry already said yes,” Callie replied, coolly, and Tris’ heart skipped a few beats.

“He what?”

“He is, unlike you, a responsible adult, who knows what he’s doing. Jeff called me half an hour ago to inform me of the happy news. We’ve booked a studio in London for you; your first rehearsal is on Monday, November 18th, 9 o’clock sharp. That leaves you nearly six weeks to prepare yourself.”

“I hate your guts right now, do you know that?”

“Yes, I do. For a manager that sometimes means a job well done.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll talk to you again when you’ve calmed down. Have a nice afternoon.”

The line clicked and Callie was gone, leaving Tris to blankly stare through the windscreen at the road before her and wonder what to do with that mix of anger, disappointment, sadness, pain and weird anticipation raging in her stomach. She wasn't even close to being over Harry, despite her best efforts. Her little talk with Niall yesterday had made that all too clear. There were still emotions at play, emotions she was about to suppress and store away and conceal with the flimsy cloth of professionalism for three weeks straight, with him right _there_. Had it been anyone else but Harry, even Jim, she wouldn’t have thought it impossible: Callie had a point – people in all fields of work acted like they liked each other from day to day, even if they really didn’t. Hell, there had been enough people in Tris’ life that she’d pretended to like.

But the thing was…pretence had a history of not working out for her when it came to Harry Styles. He had a way of bulldozing her walls down in a strangely gentle fashion, and she ardently hated him for it, right then. She knew she couldn’t do this, not really, and it already scared the hell out of her.

Tris cursed, silently, under her breath, then once more, louder; and then, out of an inexplicable impulse, she started laughing.

This time the cabbie – who had to be wondering about her mental state at this point – finally felt compelled to say something. “You sound amused, ma’am?”

Tris wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, I am. I am.”

“May I ask why?”

“Well, you know. It’s just…” Another giggle escaped her mouth. “The Queen of England really fucking hates me.”


	5. Harrygate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pain? Pain.

The Grand Piano Suite at the _Claridge’s Hotel_ in Mayfair, London, was exactly what it said on the tin: A preposterously spacious array of rooms with a preposterously big grand piano smack-dab in the middle of them. Tris was well aware that she should take this sort of luxury in stride – she used to spend weeks upon weeks in suites just like this. But after almost three months of occupying her old bedroom in Salisbury it seemed foreign and weird to her to have all of this space completely to herself; like she’d been thrown back into a different life that she didn’t know how to deal with any more.

_Two weeks. Two lousy, extremely emotionally exhausting weeks. Then it’s over and I can buy me some seriously fancy shoes. Thank you, Your Majesty._

Her phone rang in the other room and it took Tris quite a while to reach the big vanity she’d left it on.

“Hello?”

“Ev’nin’, creampuff. We’re on our way to pick you up, supposed to be there in ten,” Jade’s voice joyously sounded down the line.

Tris grinned, excitement bubbling up in her bloodstream like carbonic acid. “Alright. I’m nearly done here. I’ll come down to the lobby.”

“Lovely! See ya!”

“See you.”

The line clicked, and Tris shoved the phone into her small handbag on the chair right next to her so she wouldn’t forget it, before she threw a last glance in the mirror. Her hair had grown down to about the middle of her upper arms over the last year, pitch black against her too-pale skin. She’d put the four pounds Perrie had scolded her about back on, including one more, for good measure; and she had to admit to herself that she looked pretty good tonight, despite the circumstances. The make-up was working wonders for her complexion, giving her skin the glow it so desperately lacked without it, and the fiery red on her lips didn’t hurt the out-to-get-you-vibe of her black-leather-heavy outfit at all. This was by far the sexiest she’d dressed in quite a while and some long-forgotten part of her revelled in it; even though she hadn’t been too enthusiastic about Perrie’s plans for going out with the girls and getting reasonably drunk the weekend before _Harrygate_ (how Jesy called it) right away. But during the last few days she’d started to crave distraction more and more, walking around her Mum’s house like a caged tigress in anticipation of the looming, inevitable threat called _Monday_ that came towards her at a fast pace; so she’d stopped being anxious about this evening and started looking forward to getting wasted with her friends one last time before...

_Let’s not go there. Not tonight._

She resolutely grabbed her bag from the chair and her coat from the four-poster bed she’d carelessly tossed it on an hour ago.

This was her night, and she wasn’t going to waste it thinking about things she couldn’t change.

No, the only thing she’d be doing tonight was forget.

 

 

***

 

 

At half past one Tris was well on the way to drunk out of her mind, her arms around the neck of a handsome, blue-eyed college student by the name of Matt, who vaguely reminded her of Jonathan Rhys-Meyers in his better years, snogging him into oblivion to the blaring sounds of _Billie Jean_. She had no idea where Jade, Perrie or any of the others had taken off to, but in her current condition she didn’t exactly care. At the moment all that mattered to her was the pressing question of whether Matt had a flat of his own, or whether she’d have to drag him along to her hotel room under the scrutiny of the desk clerk, who might just sell the story to the press, knowing her luck. But she’d do it, by God, she’d do it, because the man could _kiss_ (and she _really_ hoped that that wasn’t the alcohol talking).

When they came up for air, Matt’s hair was utterly wrecked, tousled in all the spots Tris had grabbed and pulled it, and despite the inferior light conditions, Tris could tell that his lips were smudged lipstick-red.

“Wow.” She didn’t hear him say it, because the music was way too loud to properly communicate, but the movements of his mouth were distinct enough to interpret them. Tris smiled at him and realised with considerable disdain that the room was spinning around her. This fact was cause for concern mostly because it would prevent her from enjoying any Matt-related encounters of the sexual kind in her near future – but her inebriated brain soon supplied her with the helpful information that drinking water usually helped with these types of problems.

“I need water.” She made a clumsy drinking gesture, and Matt seemed to be good at lip-reading, too, because he took her hand and steered her towards the bar. He ordered and paid for her, then gave her a big, beautiful smile.

“I’ll go take a leak. Don’t leave, okay?” Here, away from the loudest parts of the floor, he didn’t need to scream for her to understand him, which was a very welcome development. Tris grabbed the button border of his shirt and pulled him in for a quick, passionate kiss. “I’m not leaving,” she growled against his lips.

When she let go his smile had grown even bigger. He turned away and started pushing through the crowd towards the toilets, leaving Tris to her own devices. She sighed and leaned back against the wooden counter, in hopes that that might also help with the spinning – and nearly fell over despite the support when the guy right next to her turned his face towards her.

For a second she thought she might be suffering from some sort of alcohol-induced hallucinations, but she departed from that theory immediately: The shock had rendered her almost sober, and the green-blue-grey of his eyes, the way he was holding his cocktail glass, the shocked redness of his mouth - it all looked way too real; even though his hair was a good deal shorter than she’d last seen it, just about covering his ears in soft, dark-brown strands, merely the hint of a curl distinguishable at the side of his neck. He was dressed in black, jeans, shirt, Chelsea boots, and Tris felt all the walls she’d laboriously built up around her unstable emotions crumble to dust in his wake.

A small bottle of water and a glass with ice and lemon were being put down next to her on the counter, but she hardly noticed, her eyes glued to the man in front of her.

“Beatrice.” She couldn’t tell if he’d spoken her name out loud or whispered it, but an answering “Harry” was being pulled off her lips anyway, in an impulse she thought she’d be able to control by now but quite obviously wasn’t.

“TRIS! There you are! We thought you’d gone-“ Perrie’s voice broke off when she saw, her questioning hand on Tris’ shoulder gripping tight enough to hurt from one second to the next.

“Oh,” she said, almost too quiet to hear, but loud enough to rip Tris out of her state of shock. She spun around, a pained half-smile on her face and pulled Perrie into a hug.

“Where have you been?” Her voice sounded strained and wrong to her ears.

Perrie pushed her away, keeping her hands lightly on Tris’ shoulders while she searched her expression. “Upstairs. We thought you and Mr Handsome might enjoy some privacy, but…” Her eyes quickly darted to where Harry was most likely standing and staring at them, then back to Tris. “Maybe you want to join us? Cool down a little?”

Tris swallowed. “I’d love that. Yes.”

“Hey,” a full, male voice said, accompanied by an intimate hand sliding into place at Tris’ waist, and _this_ was really the last thing she needed, but apparently the universe hated her with a burning passion.

Luckily she was feeling distinctly less drunk by now, and the urge to get away from this mess overruled her compulsive politeness, so she pried Matt’s hand from her waist with determination and turned around to face him. “I’m really sorry, Matt, but something came up. I need to go.”

He furled his eyebrows. “But I thought we were…”

“Eloping? Sorry, no. I have to leave. Now.” She suppressed the impulse to look over Matt’s shoulder in Harry’s direction, and kept her eyes firmly set on the developing scowl before her instead.

“What? But – you…you just put your lipstick all over my face. I invited you for a drink. What do you mean, you have to go?”

Tris felt herself grow impatient. “Listen, I’m sorry, okay? But it’s not like I owe you. We had fun, don’t spoil it.”

Matt shook his head. “Now _I’m_ the one spoiling it? Be honest, you looking for something better? ‘Cause you’re not _that_ pretty.”

A hand landed on Matt’s shoulder from behind, three large silver rings sparkling in the blue half-light around them, and a low, friendly voice said, “That’s not a very nice way to speak to a lady, mate” in a warning tone. Harry’s eyes fixated the back of Matt’s head, and an unexpected wave of fondness surged up through Tris’ insides, mixing in with the anger and confusion already present. She felt Perrie’s hand on her own shoulder, soothing, and she knew her friend was staring daggers in Matt’s face, bless her; but he was either too drunk or too cocky to heed any of the signs that he had pissed not one but three people off at the same time, because he batted Harry’s hand away without further ado and continued.

“If anyone should be looking for something better, it’s me. Seriously, all of you bitches think you’re Megan Fox, but-“

He was interrupted by Harry’s hand, tenaciously reappearing on his shoulder. This time his grip looked a whole lot firmer.

“I mean it, you’re not going to talk to her like that.”

That’s what finally took Matt’s attention away from Tris. He whirled around, and even from her perspective Tris could see the look of annoyance on his face.

“Don’t fucking meddle, _mate._ This is between her and me, you got it?”

“No it isn’t,” Harry insisted. “I think it’s time for you to take off.”

Matt’s eyebrows rose. “Are you trying to get with her? Do you think that pathetic attempt at manliness will get you anywhere near her panties? Huh?”

He shoved Harry backwards, sent him stumbling against the bar, where he barely managed to regain his balance, and Tris’ patience finally snapped.

“Matt,” she said in the most restrained tone of voice she was capable of.

He turned his attention and his body to her once more, this time with serious anger in his eyes. Anger that quickly changed into surprise, then pain when Tris grabbed his crotch, found his balls through his jeans and enclosed them in an iron grip. She managed to keep her voice low and calm, all of her aggression channelled into her right hand.

“Listen closely now. I don’t like people insulting me, but that’s fair game. If you’re dense enough to attack my friends, though, I’ll turn into your personal nightmare. So I suggest you fuck off now, unless you want to spend the rest of your life with seriously damaged goods. Okay?”

Matt nodded, his pretty face distorted with pain.

Tris let go, and he did as he was told, not even bothering with any further insults.

She kept her eyes on his back until she couldn’t make it out any more; and Perrie exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for a while. “Hell’s bells, girl. That was brilliant! And really stupid, too…Fuck, Tris, what if that comes out? What if the tabloids…?”

Tris shook her head. “Let them write whatever they want. I don’t give a fuck any more.”

Her eyes found Harry’s, who was standing halfway between the bar and her, looking at her with an expression that was incredibly hard to decipher. Something inside her urged her to go to him, thank him, hug him, _kisshimtakehimlovehim,_ and she stood, unmoving, for seconds that seemed like eternities.

Then, at last, Harry turned away, and the moment was over.

“Let’s go,” Perrie said, softly, and Tris looked at her. She felt close to crying - the dissipating adrenaline, mixed with alcohol and emotions and  _Harry_ was finally starting to take its toll.

“I think I’m going home, Perrie. Thank you for having me. It was a lovely evening.”

Perrie looked at her for a few moments, like she wanted to say something. But then she seemed to decide otherwise, nodded, and pulled Tris into a long, warm embrace. “Darling…if you need anything, really, _anything_ , just call, okay?”

“Thank you, Perrie. Truly. I’ll be fine.”

Going by the look in Perrie’s eyes Tris wasn’t the only one who knew that that was as big a lie as they came.

Halfway to the cloakroom she risked a last look back. Harry was still at the bar; but now there was a familiar blond man right beside him, speaking to him.

Niall _._

_So that's his company tonight._

Tris wondered for a moment if Niall had caught the little disagreement earlier from afar, if Harry was telling him about it right now. Would he even talk about having met her at all, if he wasn’t forced to? Would he turn her into an unknown woman in his story, not mention her name, just go on about Matt’s stupidity and lack in manners? Or would he speak, in detail, about _Tris’_ stupidity for having chosen such a shitty one-night-stand? Laugh about her, maybe, to Niall’s discomfort?

She tore herself away from the view and her thoughts and wished, for the millionth time in the last eight months, that she didn’t care.


	6. Failing At Professional

“You saw it yourself. It was awful. Really, really awful. How do you think Her Majesty is going to take to us not even being able to get our entries right? Is there something like a death penalty still applicable in these types of situations? Or is it just going to be the Tower for three years straight?”

Tris was sitting at her vanity in her hotel room, massaging her temples. Her mobile lay before her, loudspeakers on, with Callie on the other end of the line trying to talk Tris through the aftermath of what had to be considered the worst rehearsal of her entire career.

“It wasn’t that bad, Tris. Some things just…need a little work.”

Tris watched her face in the mirror take on an incredulous expression, when she thought back to it in an attempt to find one thing, just _one,_ about this Monday un-terrible enough to give Callie’s sentence at least a small ring of truth. It was almost painful to go through it again in her thoughts, the stilted re-introduction between Callie, Jeff, Harry and her, Harry’s closed-off expression during all of it, the awkward wordlessness between them when they’d tried their hands at the first few songs, the frustrating pauses after screwing every single one of them up, the half-snapping-at-each-other afterwards, the ominously less-than-good condition of both their voices, and over all, the constant, dragging pain that had been fluctuating somewhere between Tris’ stomach and her throat during the whole day, only getting less acute when she’d finally sat in the cab back to the hotel, alone.

“That is a hopeless understatement, Callie, and you know it. You got me into this bloody mess, and now you’re not even willing to acknowledge that it’s not working out the way you thought. At least be honest. For fuck’s sake.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Then a resigned sigh.

“Okay, fine, you were both terrible today. Absolutely terrible. I didn’t know you had it in you to be so goddamn awful. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Actually, yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Callie gave a small huff. “From tomorrow on Jeff and I won’t be there to chaperone you any more – maybe it’s going to get better without two people staring at you through a window.”

Tris laughed mirthlessly. “Do you really think that will solve anything between us? The passive-aggressiveness? The inability to communicate? The bad singing? Really?”

“You’ll find a way to be reasonable about it.”

“Reasonable? _Reasonable?_ This is what I was trying to tell you from the very beginning, Callie! We _can’t_ be reasonable about this, because we are _involved,_ both of us, and I, for my part, am not over any of it. And, honestly, looking at Harry, I don’t think he is, either. Do you just not understand that THAT’S WHY IT’S NOT WORKING?!” Tris hadn’t meant to raise her voice or get up from her chair, for that matter, but today had been way, _way_ too much for her, and she knew she was fighting a losing battle here, so her anger and frustration had quite the incentive to start boiling over. For once, she let it. Callie didn’t deserve better.

“I’m starting to think that you don’t _want_ it to work, Tris,” her chiding voice sounded down the line. “That you’re actively struggling against doing well with Harry. You want to see this venture fail, because I forced you to do this, don’t you? Because I-”

“NONE OF THIS IS ABOUT YOU!” That would have been loud enough to wake neighbours, weren’t this suite so ridiculously big. Tris didn’t care. “Do you REALLY think I’m that much of a STUPID, BRATTY TEENAGER to actively sabotage this _venture_ so you wouldn’t have the triumph of having been right? I fucking wish. I really FUCKING wish. Because seeing him? Being around him? It’s painful. It hurts. It tears at me. So much that it makes me want to fucking _die_ , sometimes. And that has nothing, _nothing_ to do with you, or anything you did, or anything you think you know.”

Silence fell. Tens of seconds, almost a minute, before Callie spoke again, so long that Tris thought she might have already hung up.

“There’s no need to shout at me, Tris. I can see you’re upset. And I believe you. The circumstances aren’t great, not at all. I might even have underestimated the emotional upheaval you’re still going through. But- look, I’ve been through a divorce once. And for the two years after that my ex-husband and I were forced to work with each other nevertheless, because terminating our management contract would have cost the one going through with it an ungodly sum of money. We were both too cheap for that and too proud for an agreement of any other sort. And we did it. It was a good, professional, mutually beneficial relationship between an artist and his manager, and we saw a lot of each other in that time.”

Tris was listening with growing astonishment despite the anger still very present in her stomach. Callie never spoke about personal things, and Tris hadn’t even known she had been married once. It was hard to imagine, too: Callie, the blushing bride. Callie, the wife who stayed at home and cooked dinner. Callie, in a relationship with a _pop singer_. A well-known one, probably – she had always been high profile in her management, as far as Tris knew. Her brain went involuntarily wild with the possibilities, going through a whole list of stars, now in their forties or fifties, who could have been in Callie’s management and impressed her enough to evoke romantic interest. She’d have to do some research, sooner or later…

Her attention snapped away from her ponderings and back to Callie, just when her manager was finishing up her story. “ – parting amicably over a glass of Whiskey. All I’m saying, Tris, is that it’s possible, even if you don’t see it happening right now.”

Tris thought about that sentence for a while.

“When you were divorced, and you saw him, and you worked with him…” she said, at last. “Did you still love him?”

A pause. Long one.

“I didn’t,” Callie finally replied, very quietly.

“Then it’s not the same,” Tris said. “At all.”

Callie cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, it sounded like she meant it. “I’m sorry, Tris. Really sorry.”

“ _Sorry_ won’t get us anywhere.”

“No. It won’t,” Callie conceded.

Tris nodded, took her mobile phone and ended the call without another word.

She sat, for a while, her eyes fixed to a far-off place beyond the white-purple tapestry of her bedroom; at a loss. What the hell was she supposed to do? Now. And tomorrow, when she’d have to hail a cab back to the studio and imprison herself with a Harry-shaped wall of stoic defence and unspokenness, rivalled only by her own, Tris-shaped wall of passive-aggressiveness and barely contained emotion, for at least eight hours.

Her phone rang, and she only meant to brush it with a fleeting glance, because this was almost definitely Callie, adamant in trying to make her find a solution to something that didn’t have one. Tris’ intent went right out of the window, though, when she saw that it _wasn’t_ Callie.

 _Niall Horan calling…_ it said on the screen, bright and indisputable.

Her eyes remained focused on it while she tried to decide whether to take the call or not; but the ringing didn’t stop, so, struck with a sudden bout of bad conscience she finally put the phone to her ear and answered.

“Hello?”

“Ev’nin’, Tris. How are you?”

She swallowed, and found that she didn’t have it in her to deny the truth. “Not that good, to be honest. Rehearsal was a disaster today. As predicted.”

“So I’ve heard.”

It struck Tris, then, that he’d spoken to Harry, and her heart started beating faster, despite herself.

“What was the problem?” Niall added, curiously.

Tris sighed. “Everything. Our timing was shit, our voices were shittier. We didn’t make it through a single one of our songs without at least one of us fucking up. The building frustration didn’t help at all, by the way. And the communication – God help us. He was completely emotionless, I was starting to snap at him, he half-heartedly snapped back; it felt like bloody March all over again. Only worse, because now we’re stuck with each other, and we’re supposed to work together, and I can’t be professional about this, I _can’t_ , Niall. And Callie can’t help me and my Mum can’t help me and I can’t help myself and, Jesus Christ, Niall, what the _hell_ am I supposed to do?” Somewhere halfway through it she’d started crying, and despite the embarrassment she felt about it, it was somewhat freeing, too, to just let it happen.

Niall inhaled sharply. “Oh, shit. Harry said it hadn’t been good, but he was suspiciously vague about the details.”

“Typical,” Tris said, through the tears, before she could stop herself.

“It is.”

“Yeah.” She paused. “Are you talking to him about me, Niall?” The question came to her out of the blue, but as soon as she’d asked it she realised that she really wanted it answered.

Niall chuckled. “Not more than I talk to you about him. Mostly, though, I’m just forwarding information you should be sharing among yourselves. Playing owl, so to speak.”

“ _Owl_?”

Now Niall was downright laughing. “There was a scene in a _Harry-Potter_ -movie once. Part 4, I think? Ron and Harry had a stupid fight, and they weren’t talking, and Ron told Hermione to tell Harry something. And then Harry wanted her to give Ron an answer. And so on. She got really frustrated with it really quick, and uttered the immortal sentence: _I’m not an owl._ That’s what I keep thinking about when I talk to either of you. The only difference between Hermione and me is that the frustration with your mutual inability to communicate like adults hasn’t gotten the better of me. Yet.”

Tris was so surprised by the direction this conversation had taken that she promptly stopped crying. “What?”

Niall gave a long-suffering sigh. “Okay, Tris, listen. You told me about Callie giving you the advice to be _professional_ with Harry _,_ and that obviously stuck with you. Now you’re beating yourself up, because your feelings are in the way – which was to be expected – and you’re failing at _professional_ , and you think there’s no other option in dealing with him, don’t you?”

She didn’t confirm, but she didn’t think she really needed to – Niall seemed very sure about what he was telling her, and he was, like so often, right on the money with his assumptions.

“Callie is a good adviser, but she’s also very much the _Conceal don’t feel_ type, and that’s pretty much exactly not you. Of course you’re failing at being her. So, have you thought about not being _professional_ , for once, and just talk about emotions? Speak to Harry about how this whole thing is weighing on you, and how you think he might have the same type of problem, and how being around him is difficult for you, and how you still want to try and find a way of working with him that doesn’t end in frustration for both parties? Because that might be, despite the glaring lack in _professionalism_ , a sensible, adult way to go about your situation.”

Tris blinked at the wall for a while, forgotten tears slowly drying on her cheeks. Niall’s words had put a whole new set of gearwheels in her head into motion.

“I’m…I’m scared that sort of talk might open the floodgates, Niall,” she finally gave her only objection.

“Well, yeah,” Niall retorted. “Talking about emotions is always harder than burying them; but since you seem to be incapable of that, anyway, what is the alternative? You don’t have a lot to lose at this point when it comes to Harry.”

“No,” Tris said, thoughtfully. “I don’t. I thought talking about feelings might make it worse with him, but as it turns out, it can’t get much worse than it is, can it now? I’m already suffering.”

“That’s the spirit.” A small yawn sounded from Niall’s end of the line. “Oh God, sorry, I’ve been recording all day. If it’s fine with you I’ll go to sleep now.”

“Sure, Niall, sure. Thank you. And sleep well.”

“Anytime. You, too, g’night.”

He hung up, and Tris put the phone aside.

Talking about feelings? Harry and she hadn’t done that since…well, since February, probably. Of course, the situation was different now, but-

But.

Niall wasn’t wrong. She had nothing left to lose.

Maybe it was time.


	7. Hope

“Black, no sugar.”

Harry looked up at her in complete bafflement when she shoved the steaming Starbucks cup his way. He was sitting on one of the uncomfortably small foldy chairs at the tiny table in the corner of the studio, right next to the old, sagging leather couch opposite the piano. He’d been brooding over his smartphone when she’d entered, not even taking note of her arrival. Until now, that was.

An unhelpfully observant part of Tris’ brain found the way in which his dark brown hair framed the surprised almost-green of his eyes in half-long, messy strands to be quite lovely; even though she missed how it had been when they’d been together, curling down to his shoulders, then growing past them, at which point he’d started wearing it almost exclusively in ties, ties she’d taken out immediately the very moment she’d gotten him alone…

“For me?” he asked, and Tris remembered with a steep sinking of her gut that they were strangers and this was nothing more than a peace offering.

“Yes,” she said, sitting down on the other foldy chair, her signature Chai with almond milk in hand. “Can we talk, Harry?”

For a second she was scared that he might say No. That he’d take a glance at his Daniel Wellington watch and decide that she wasn’t worth his precious time. After all it was past 9 am already and he was only here for rehearsals, not for personal talks, _be professional for once, Beatrice_.

But he nodded.

She’d gone through the words she’d wanted to say more than ten times, had written them down at some point yesterday night, when she hadn’t been able to sleep after Niall’s call, had memorised them, then changed them, again and again, draft after draft after draft. Now, with Harry’s curious eyes on her face, she couldn't remember a single one of them.

_Wing it, then._

“We were awful yesterday, Harry. I know it, you know it, Callie knows it, Jeff knows it. We don’t work well together, we don’t sing well together, our communication skills suck, so much that it makes rehearsals outright painful. And let’s not kid ourselves about the reasons for this disastrous teamwork: We’re still hurting, and being in prison with each other for eight hours every day doesn’t do either of us any good. I’ve tried being professional about this, tried pushing my feelings on the matter away, but that’s not how it works for me. So here I am, telling you all this in hopes that we’ll find a solution, a way to work with each other, not _despite_ the situation but _with_ the situation.”

Harry had listened intently; and then he was nodding again, a small movement that caused at least some of the nervous tension coursing through Tris' system to fade. “I feel the same, Beatrice. If we go on like this the Queen might actually find a legal way to behead us.”

“Or an illegal one.”

He chuckled, and something inside Tris twinged when she realised that she’d missed his laughter, but she bravely smiled back at him.

“Either way, we wouldn’t survive it,” Harry retorted. He took a sip of his coffee, before he spoke again. “So, to save our lives, what do you suggest?”

Tris chewed on her bottom lip for a moment or two. “We talk. When something doesn’t work out we don’t eat our frustration, we share constructive thoughts. No passive-aggressive behaviour. We don’t snap at each other – well, _I_ don’t snap at _you_. And we don’t do the whole stoic brooding business on our breaks.”

“You mean – _I_ don’t do the whole stoic brooding business.” Harry was almost grinning now.

“Precisely. And we don’t use Niall as an owl any more. We communicate important information personally.”

Harry frowned. “An owl?”

“Apparently there was this scene in one of the Harry-Potter-movies…never mind. We just – speak to each other. If that’s fine by you. We don’t need to share any personal stuff, just…converse like adults, you know? And then go from there.”

“I’d like that.” He surveyed her expression for a long moment like he meant to add something important, but then he shook his head, just slightly, and asked: “Where do I sign?”

“I think shaking hands might suffice,” Tris said, put down her tea and stretched out her right hand over the small table.

“Fair enough,” Harry gave back, the smile still on his face, and shook it.

  

 

***

 

 

“I’m going to get myself something to eat. You, too?”

Tris shook her head and gave him a short smile over her shoulder. “No. I’m fine.”

  
Harry furrowed his brows, while he put on his leather jacket over the dark grey pullover he was wearing. “Promise me you’ll take a break, though, okay?”

“I will. Get your food, I’ll finish up in the meantime. Just need to go over the last few bars, polish them a little. Then I’ll kick back for half an hour.”

“They already sound good, Beatrice,” Harry retorted. A small, teasing smile was playing on his lips and Tris reflexively rolled her eyes at him before she turned back to the sheets on the piano stand before her.

“Not as good as they could be,” she said.

“Alright, alright, I’ll leave you to it. Irredeemable perfectionist that you are.” With that he moved in the direction of the door behind her; and when it finally fell shut Tris sighed relief.

The working atmosphere between them had bettered exponentially over night, and rehearsals had progressed significantly since they’d decided to talk it out over morning coffee a day ago. There were still some dull remnants of pain flaring up in Tris’ chest now and then, when Harry did or said something that hit too close to home, and their conversations had the occasional awkward pause in them, but Tris knew that, realistically, that wasn’t going to go away any time soon; and if this was how they were going to be from now on, she was more than happy to take it.

Still, it was exhausting to be in a room with Harry for hours on end. Having him around that long put a strain on Tris’ nerves, mostly because she still feared some kind of unspecified dam break on her part in his presence. So she was more than glad about the small periods of safety they spent apart during the day, coffee breaks and lunch breaks, even toilet breaks, sometimes, when she’d stare into the bathroom mirror for a few minutes, feel the cool tiles beneath her fingers and reassure herself that she was the calmest, most emotionally collected person on the planet.

Tris had no idea if Harry was facing similar problems. He was letting nothing on, but since he wasn’t deliberately trying to push her, either, she could live with not knowing. _I’ll leave you in peace, you’ll leave me in peace, and we can all be fine and dandy. Right? Right._

Tris focused her attention back on the sheets and replayed the last few bars of _Easy In The Dark._ This was the song in their set that brought back the most memories for her. She vividly recalled the evening they’d written it, the way the shadows had played on Harry’s face when he’d lifted her up on the piano in her flat and kissed her, how the curls of his hair had fallen through her fingers when she’d taken off the tie holding them together…

Her fingers slid off the keys in frustration.

“Stop it! Jesus motherfucking Christ!”

The reprimand didn’t work, not even out loud. Without Harry in her immediate vicinity, she wasn’t so hard-pressed to keep her emotions in check; and like water through cracks in the wooden boards of a ship’s hold, they came seeping back as soon as she elevated the pressure only the slightest bit.

Tris huffed in annoyance and started playing something altogether different, punching the melody into the piano keys. It must have stuck somewhere in the back of her head since she’d heard it last at Perrie’s, and she hadn’t played it for a while; but it seemed like the perfect soundtrack to her current mood.

_I want to break free from your lies, you’re so self-satisfied,_

_I don’t need you_

_I want to break free_

_God knows, God knows I want to break free_

By the second verse she’d blown off enough steam, and the chords of the song turned into improvisations, jumping through scales and plunking away, until she reached another familiar sequence; and then, suddenly, the song was there and she couldn’t stop. She wasn’t planning on outright singing it, but during the second chorus her low humming became louder and more pronounced, as if the lyrics were demanding to be sung.

_And through it all she offers me protection_

_A lot of love and affection_

_Whether I’m right or wrong_

_And down the waterfall_

_Wherever it may take me_

_I know that life won’t break me_

_When I come to call, she won’t forsake me_

_I’m loving angels instead_

The sheets were swimming before her eyes by the time she was done, but she blinked the tears away and stood up, determined to go to the bathroom and sort herself out before Harry came back.

When she turned around, white-hot shock shot through her limbs. She must have missed the sound of the door going – that was the only explanation for what she saw. Harry was sitting on the couch behind her, his jacket sloppily thrown over the armrest, a small brown paper bag forgotten on the floor next to his feet.

He was looking at her, tears in his eyes.

Tris made a small sound in the back of her throat and sank back down on the piano chair, facing him.

They stared at each other for a good thirty seconds.

“Are you happy, Beatrice?” Harry finally asked into the silence, his voice rough and strained.

It would have been easy to lie. To anyone but him.

“No,” she said. Her voice sounded so much calmer than she felt. “I tell myself something different. But it’s not working very well.”

He slowly shook his head. “Me neither. Happy, I mean.”

There was silence, once again.

“What did we do wrong?” The question finally left Tris’ mouth in a harsh gust.

Harry’s hands were defenceless in his lap, palms up, the look in his eyes openly pained. “I don’t know, Beatrice. The press was on our heels 24/7, and I think…I think it was too much for you, wasn’t it? But I never asked. It’s my fault I never asked.”

Tris violently shook her head. “No. It’s my fault I never told you. It was childish to get worked up over a few paparazzi after everything we’d already been through.”

Harry stood, from one second to the next, and started marching up and down in front of the couch, suddenly agitated. “It’s not childish, Beatrice. I’ve had time to learn how to deal with that sort of attention focused on my relationships for years! And you were thrown into the circus in a matter of days. I wasn’t there for you when you needed it, because I was too thick to understand that you might be struggling.”

Tris felt the need to stand up as well, even if just for the sake of being at eye level with Harry. “After I met trouble halfway, because I was already worrying about it before it actually happened!”

Harry stopped walking and looked at her intently, more grey than green in his eyes. “You warned me, Beatrice. And I thought we’d just deal with it, as naturally as we’d dealt with everything up to that point. I didn’t take it seriously enough.”

“And I took it too seriously.” Tris sighed, lifting her hands in resignation. “Maybe that was the problem, Harry. There were so many bigger, badder things that we’d handled perfectly fine. And this one – this one just slipped under the radar. Until it got so big and so bad that we didn’t know how to talk about it any more.”

“Probably,” Harry said. All signs of agitation had left him in a matter of seconds. Now he just looked tired. “In the end it felt…as if we had completely unlearned how to communicate. Like we couldn’t let ourselves be, I don’t know, _vulnerable_ around the other any more.”

“Turns out, not talking was not the solution,” Tris gave back.

Harry’s lips curled upwards ever so slightly, but there was still an ache in his eyes, like the memory actively hurt him. “No, it wasn’t. How stupid of us.”

“Really stupid,” Tris agreed. It was occurring to her, then, that what they were doing here was the exact opposite of _not sharing personal stuff_ , and Harry’s presence was becoming more and more overwhelming when she found herself increasingly swamped with everything she had tried so hard to keep behind closed doors.

“I think giving up might have been a mistake, Harry,” she said, very quietly, despite herself; and his expression changed. Softness drained the exhaustion and the pain from his eyes, and three strides later he was right up in her personal space, his warmth all over her, his face up close, his hand on her temple, sudden, like an outrageous daydream. Her body was humming with it, straining towards him, her heart in her throat as he looked at her like one might at an epiphany; and when Tris put her hands on him, pulled him in and kissed him, it felt like two puzzle pieces were finally slotting back into place. His scent, his taste, his movements, the bones beneath skin beneath her fingertips, none of that needed any getting used to; and yet, despite the seeming lack in novelty, Tris felt like she was kissing him for the first time all over again.

It wasn’t the gentlest kiss they’d ever shared, there was too much desperation in it for that, but certainly one of the longest. Tris was scared to let go, and she knew that Harry was, too, his hands grabbing onto her lower back and the nape of her neck in an attempt to pull her as close as humanly possible; her hands in the soft hair at the back of his head doing exactly the same. In the end the heavy rustling of paper behind Tris’ back put a surprise end to it, as she instinctually twisted her head to look at her sheets toppling off the piano stand.

Harry’s pupils were wide and his mouth red when she looked back at him, his fingers still defiantly resting on her skin and Tris saw the precursors of a question in his eyes that she didn’t think she could find a good answer to.

“What are we doing?” he said. It sounded lost, like he was honestly asking her for guidance in this crazy mess they’d just made of themselves; and Tris’ hand came up to his face, a small, gentle, almost habitual touch to his cheekbone.

“I don’t know, Harry.” It wasn’t much more than a whisper, but she was surprised that she could still speak at all.

He looked at her, searching her eyes for something she couldn’t put a name to; and she wasn’t even sure whether he’d found it or not when he softly stepped out of their embrace. Part of Tris wanted nothing more than to grab onto him, keep him there for the next ten, hundred, thousand minutes, but she managed to let go, and Harry gave her a wavering smile.

“Maybe we can try and figure it out.”

Tris nodded. Something was lighting up her insides at Harry’s carefully spoken words; and it took her a while to identify the feeling. She hadn’t had it in a long while. But now it was there again, true and indelible, like it had never been gone in the first place.

_Hope._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted in this chapter:
> 
> "I Want To Break Free" by Queen
> 
> "Angels" by Robbie Willams


	8. Figuring It Out

The rest of the day had been weird, to say the least.

Jeff had checked in on them barely ten minutes after their _moment_ , or whatever one might call it, and left half an hour later, overjoyed at the constructive working relationship they’d settled into. After his departure they’d done three more hours of rehearsal like nothing had happened; and Tris might have thought their kiss to have been a figment of her overactive imagination, hadn’t she caught Harry staring at her across the studio more than once.

They hadn’t talked about it, and Tris was glad about that for once, because, rationally speaking, she needed at least one night’s sleep away from Harry to get her thoughts in order; mostly due to a heated _something_ in her stomach that had started spinning scenarios involving both of them naked on the floor of the studio, which greatly impeded any thought-ordering from happening in Harry’s presence.

In the end Tris had made it through the rest of the studio day without another emotional break of one or the other kind by the skin of her teeth, and now, in the seclusion of her dark hotel room, just around midnight, she’d finally found the leisure and time to think about what she was going to do.

Kissing Harry again had been – nice.

Okay.

Very nice. World-changingly nice. The kind of nice that people associated with the term _“religious experience”._

Tris sighed and turned on her back beneath the sheets, staring up at the canopy of her bed. This wasn’t helping. She was still in love with Harry, very much so. She already knew that. And apparently his feelings for her hadn’t left him entirely, either, over the past eight months.

Remained the question: Was that enough?

If they were to try again, would what was still there suffice? Or would they realise, sooner or later, that they’d had their shot and screwed it up forever? It was stupid to think that things between them could just go back to the way they were. On the contrary: They’d have to re-learn each other like a foreign language after months of not speaking at all. What had happened today had felt easy, almost natural, but it wasn’t going to stay that way. They were both disappointed, and heartbroken, and weary from suffering too much. Taking up the thread would take effort, and success wasn’t guaranteed. Success wasn’t even likely.

Tris was a far cry from a solution when her phone started vibrating on the nightstand. Her pulse skyrocketed when she saw the caller’s name.

_Harry Styles._

She hadn’t deleted his number, despite Perrie’s strong advice for it; and now, on an impulse, she picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Harry’s voice came from the other end. “Is this a bad time?”

Tris almost started laughing – the clock radio on the nightstand showed _0:39_.

But then, _bad time_ was an elastic term.

“Not really. I can’t sleep anyway,” she finally replied, surprised by her own honesty.

“Me neither,” Harry retorted with a sigh.

“Jetlag?”

“A little. You, too?”

Tris sat up and assumed a more comfortable position, leaning back against the headboard. “No, I’ve been here for a while, at my Mum’s in Salisbury. Needed to get out of New York. You living in L.A. for the moment?”

“Yes. It’s nice and warm there. Unlike here. Though – I do miss England sometimes.”

Tris smiled into the telephone. “You always loved the heat.”

“And you hated it. Couldn’t get back on the tour bus fast enough whenever we stopped for gas and water in the desert.”

The memories came back with his words, an old gas station in the middle of Arizona, stretches of red, dusty road and hundreds of miles yet to go until they’d reach Phoenix, Harry’s face turned up at the midday sun too bright and too hot for Tris’ liking, even though _It’s only February, Beatrice, you should see it here in July._ She had stepped into the sun despite that and kissed the taste of plastic-bottle-water off his lips, let him pull her in, the sun-warmed silver of his rings almost hot against her pale shoulders, _have I told you that I love you today._

“The hottest February they’d had in twenty years, they said. And then the AC stopped working one day and we couldn’t get a mechanic,” she recalled. “They got ice for us at the rest stop.”

“Yeah,” Harry retorted, his voice quiet in reminiscence. “And your hair was wet, because you’d poured water all over yourself.”

_You laughed at me and kissed me, and when you took my clothes off you left wet fingerprints all over them._

“Why California?” she asked.

“I like the people there.”

“Have you met any Hollywood stars yet?”

Harry chuckled. “Loads. Singers, actors, models, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Models?” Tris said. It should have sounded teasing, a joke, but it came out more like a question.

The other end of the line went silent for a few moments.

“I’m not with Camille any more,” Harry gave back, at last, an answer to the question Tris hadn’t meant to ask.

“Why?” It was so much easier to talk about these things over the phone, and so much more maddening at the same time to not be able to see Harry’s expression.

“I wasn’t the right guy for her.” Harry cleared his throat. It sounded almost embarrassed, and she mentally filed his break-up with Camille away as a subject for another day, not blind to the tell-tale-signs of Harry's unwillingness to speak about it any more at the present moment. “What about you?" he asked, predictably diverting attention back to her. "I think I read something about you and Niall in the _Sun_ a few weeks back? Flirting at a house party or something?” The first one was an honest question, but Tris could tell from his tone of voice that he wasn’t serious about the Niall-part. Still, she answered earnestly.

“Niall and I talked about a few personal things on Perrie’s patio. The fuckwit of a bartender took photos and sold them.”

“I see.” Harry paused. “And, um, what was his name again? Matt?”

Tris laughed. “Over my dead body.”

“Good.”

It was obvious that the word had escaped him, and there was a small, awkward pause between them, before a smile settled on Tris’ lips.

“Nobody else?” Harry finally asked.

“No. Nobody else.” Her smile faded. “What you said about figuring it out, today… I – I don’t know how, Harry. I can’t – I’m not… There’s still something there, but…” She trailed off.

Harry’s voice was gentle and clear through the speakers. “You’re scared.”  
Tris swallowed. “Yes. Yes, I am. Of whatever this is. Scared that we did something today that we should have avoided at all costs. Scared that history is going to repeat itself. Scared…scared that I’ll never stop lo- that I’ll never get over what we had. Scared that-”

“Hey, hey. Breathe. It’s alright. I’m scared, too. Of all the same things.”

Tris tried for a few deep breaths. It actually helped a little. “Do you think it will go away? Being scared?”

It took him a while to answer.

“No. No, I don’t think so.” The words were quiet, small.

“Is it worth it, then? To try again?” Tris’ voice had gone down to a whisper and her fingers were gripping the phone so hard it hurt, waiting for Harry to give her an answer.

Instead, she got another question.

“Is it still true? What you told Niall about me? In Seattle?”

Tris’ heart jumped up into her throat.

_Niall, you bastard. You told him, too. Of course you told him, too._

There was a long, long pause, in which Tris saw herself back on the patio at Perrie’s house, crying, and then a little further back in a corridor in front of the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons Seattle, shaken.

_More than I’ve ever loved anybody else._

“It is,” she said, her mouth dry. “It is, and it always will be.”

A soft exhale sounded on the other end of the line, followed by nothing, for a few excruciating seconds.

“I gave him an answer, too, back then, Beatrice. He asked me the same question as you. And I-“

“I know, Harry. He told me. You don’t need to say it. But –” Her heart was beating fast enough for two now, before she returned Harry’s question. “Is it still true?”

His answer was firm and not at all hesitant. Like a vow.

“It is. It always will be.”

Tris closed her eyes in something like relief, mixed with a too-familiar ache deep in her stomach. An ache that slowly started ebbing away while the relief gained momentum. “So what does that mean?” she asked, even though she knew the answer already.

Harry’s voice had lost none of its firmness when he answered. “That means it’s worth it. That means we should try.”

Tris took a deep breath. Then another one. “I’m in.”

“Me, too,” Harry retorted, softly. Silence fell, once again, before he added. “God, I hate this. Not seeing your face right now.”

As soon as he’d said it Tris realised that she felt the same, now even more than before. Her whole insides yearned for Harry’s eyes on her, his hands, his lips, things she was allowing herself to want again, impossibly so, right at this moment, after such a long time.

“Oh, Jesus, Harry, I want to- Where…?”  
“The _Claridges,_ ” he said, and Tris started laughing, all her relief and astonishment pouring out of her, unstoppable. “Me, too,” she managed halfway through it, and from one moment to the next Harry was laughing, too.

It took them a while to come out of it, and when they did, they were both breathless.

“Come to me, Harry?” Tris finally asked, and the ache in her stomach came back, but now it was more want than pain. “The _Grand Piano_ suite. 505.”

“Do you want me to?” He sounded almost as desperate as she felt.

“Yes.”

“Then wait for me.”

He ended the call, and Tris got out of bed faster than she ever had in her life, flicking on the master switch on her way. The lights blinded her for a few moments, and she shielded her eyes with one hand while she hurried over to the vanity, ripping out the tie holding her braid in place with the other. When she could finally see something her reflection greeted her with gleaming eyes, reddened cheeks and a smile she hadn’t seen on herself in ages. Tris didn’t linger for too long, though, driven to the entrance of her suite by her nervous heartbeat, naked feet on wooden floors, then carpet. She sat down on one of the large grey sofas in the lounge with a good view of the door, and started tapping her fingers on her thigh through the dark blue fabric of her nightgown, while she tried to distract herself by calculating how long it would realistically take Harry to get here. Out of bed, one minute. Take a look in the mirror, go to the bathroom, throw something on, five minutes. Get on the elevator and find her room, another five minutes. Eleven minutes. Eleven minutes of waiting. At least.

Tris got up again, rushed to the bedroom once more to get her phone, in case Harry called because he didn’t find her room, and ended up back on the grey sofa, uselessly fiddling with the device in her hands, staring at the pictures on the opposite wall. She felt close to actual madness when she finally heard a decisive knock on the door.

Tris’ heart skipped a few beats as she scrambled to get up and ran to the entrance, pressed the handle, all adrenaline and no finesse.

He was standing right in front of the door, tousled hair, jeans, a faded grey t-shirt, black ink all over his arms and a softness in his eyes that Tris had missed beyond measure.

“You’re here,” she said, like it was only just occurring to her that he‘d come, he‘d truly come _here,_ tangible and real, for her.

“I am,” he said, his voice even warmer than his eyes.

He looked at her for a long moment, before he stepped through the door towards her; and she could barely muster up the presence of mind to close it behind him, because his hands were on her already, like he couldn’t keep them away, circling her waist, sending heat through her thin nightdress where his fingertips brushed her back.

Tris closed her eyes for a second, stopped, breathed; and when she opened them again, Harry’s face was still there, his eyes greener than she remembered them.

Her fingers travelled over the sides of his face up into his hair, still incredulous, still marvelling, and Harry pulled her closer, a quiet noise in the back of his throat.

“Harry,” Tris said, because she needed to hear it, face to face, only once. “Do you love me?”

Harry shook his head, his thumb at the corner of her lip, the look in his eyes almost entranced. “I never stopped.”

He kissed her, and Tris didn’t say it back, couldn’t, like this, but she hoped that the way she returned his kiss told him that she’d never stopped, either.


	9. Back On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty smut. Y'all deserve it <3

They couldn’t really stop kissing for quite some time, standing there in the lobby of the Grand Piano Suite and clinging to each other like drowning men to a life belt. Tris’ marvelling hands wandered down over the expanses of Harry’s clothed back, pulling him closer, while their lips and tongues twisted and danced in some elaborate rhythm they had established long before this night. It was strange and exhilarating how they managed to fall back into their patterns without so much as a hiccup. The yearned-for familiarity of Harry’s big hands on her lower back and his heat on her tongue still gave Tris the same pleasurable shivers, enhanced by the long time of drought, and now, now…

Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of Harry’s shirt, touching skin, and she could feel a small tremble as they slid higher along his spine, up to the rough edges of his shoulder blades. His own hands moved deeper, over her lower back, her bum, her upper thighs, and Harry gave a soft, appreciative groan, when he found her naked underneath her nightgown. The tips of his fingers were warm at the back of her thighs, moving in, closer to where she was positively soaked for him, and the softest brush of his index finger through her wetness made her suck in a sharp breath, interrupting their kiss.

Harry was grinning, his eyes gleaming a mischievous green and his fingers glided away again, further up beneath the blue cotton, almost absentmindedly tracing bones and muscles.

“You are exploiting my disadvantage of being considerably less dressed,” Tris complained, unable to level her voice.

Harry laughed. “It’s kind of difficult to stop myself.” His hands were still covering ground on her back, and Tris let him push the nightgown up over her head, have him take it off her while she hesitantly extracted her roaming hands from beneath his shirt.

When she could see something again, Harry was looking straight at her, the warmth in his eyes turning slowly into heat, his lips parted, his breathing quickened. Tris took him in, knowing that his hunger must be mirrored in her own face, as she grabbed onto his shirt and pulled the dispensable fabric over his head and off. Under it, there was skin and ink, and she reflexively started to look for all the things she knew had to be there, each of them a reassurance that she still knew him, that this was Harry and not just a dream. Her fingers moved without her, soft touches to the swallows, the butterfly, the ship, the rose, the anchor, the mermaid, nails, Jackson, birthdates, eagle, cross… She’d always liked the black cross on his hand. It was unobtrusive, yet consistently there, a small constant in everything he did. When she took his left to kiss it she spotted something she hadn’t seen before, right at the bottom of the anchor where he usually wore his watch. It was only a small line of words, tiny in comparison to his other tattoos.

_Lost at Sea._

“That’s-,” she began but couldn’t finish the sentence. She looked up at Harry’s face, startled, and he looked back with a soft smile on his lips, the remains of an old sadness at its edges.

“Your lyrics. Yes.”

“When did you get that?”

“October 25th.”

“My birthday.” Tris was still looking at him, reminiscing what she’d done that day. They’d been out for a girls’ night in Salisbury after Tris had politely rejected Perrie’s offer to throw a massive party in London for her. She had invited about ten people of varying degrees of illustriousness, and they’d all gone out for dinner and clubbing before collectively crashing at Tris’ Mum’s house. It had been relaxed, nice and not at all like her birthday the year before, spent with Harry on a surprise-trip out of Edinburgh to St Andrews at the Coast of Fife, visiting Castle and Cathedral Ruins and kissing on the narrow pier. She had done her damnedest to block out these memories on her birthday this year, but it had been impossible, even when she'd been stuck between her giggling, tipsy friends at the _Chapel_ with loud music droning in her ears, to _not_ think about Harry, laughing, his clothes stark-black against a turbulent sea, curls of brown hair tumbling free from the tie that had been holding them, his eyes almost blue.

Harry’s right hand came up to her cheek, dragging her out of her memories. “I wanted to keep your words around.”

She nodded, and her thumb started stroking the tattoo, then rested on it, blocking it out. “You’re not lost any more,” she said, and there was a sincerity and certainty in her voice that almost surprised her.

She let go of his hand, wrapped her arms around him, kissed him again, undeterred, and Harry answered with a quiet moan in his throat, picking up where they left off, his arms warm around her, pressing her naked form against him. “I want you,” she demanded, a whisper in between kisses, Harry’s breath hot and fast in her mouth, his hands grabbing her buttocks; and a few moments later he was manoeuvering them onto the sofa Tris had sat on before, pulling her down on top of him, where she went to work on the buttons of his jeans, while he distracted her with his mouth at her clavicle.

“Fucking hell,” she cursed when she still didn’t manage to pry the metal from the surrounding fabric on the fourth try, and Harry chuckled.

“If you weren’t sitting right _there_ you might be more successful.”

“But I _like_ sitting here.” Tris pushed her hips down, grinning, partly in retaliation, and a groan swallowed Harry’s retort. “Oh _shit_.”

A second later she found herself turned around into a half-sitting position on the sofa, with Harry standing up in between her legs, pushing the buttons open one by one, his breath fast against her lips, her hands tangled in his hair, and _finally_ the jeans slid off to the floor, instantly followed by a pair of black boxer briefs. Tris was so distracted by the sight that presented itself to her right then that she didn’t notice the condom Harry had produced from _somewhere_ until he ripped the foil packaging open with quick fingers.

“You’re still eerily well-prepared,” she commented, unmistakeable fondness in her words, and Harry smiled when she took the package from his hands. “Let me?”

She slipped it on and rolled it down without problems despite the slight tremor of excitement her fingers developed at the thought of having him back inside her in less than a minute; and then Harry climbed the couch in a rather elegant way, coaxing her back on top of him, his hands firm and strong on her thighs, and Tris followed without hesitation. She kept her eyes on his when she sank down, enveloping him, and saw his lids flutter closed in pleasure, then open again, green and grey and blue.

“You okay?” she asked, when she’d taken him as deep as he would go, her pelvis pressed to his.

Harry’s hand came up to caress her temple.

“Not sure I’ll ever recover,” he said, kicking off memories in Tris’ sensorium, memories of their first morning together – warm water on her skin, forgotten tears, fear of her own courage…

“And you? How are you feeling?” he wanted to know.

Tris put her hands on his chest, stabilising herself, relishing the sensation of fullness and completeness she had been lacking for such a long time. “Like flying. Not likely to touch ground any time soon,” she retorted with a smile, telling her own truth in his words from that same Manhattan morning more than a year ago.

She started moving, slowly at first, then a little faster, when Harry met her with thrusts of his own, his eyes intently fixed on hers, his hands on her waist. Only a small flash of his smile warned her before he pushed his back away from the rest of the sofa, his mouth a sudden presence at her breast, blowing warm, damp air against the sensitive skin. Tris let out something close to a sob when he started sucking, pulling her closer still, heavy and strong inside and around her.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she managed, and Harry interrupted what he was doing with his mouth to smile up at her for a moment, that Tris used to kiss the smugness from his lips. Her hands buried themselves in his soft hair, pulling, and a groan escaped from his throat, followed by his teeth and tongue at her neck. His movements beneath her became harder, more urgent, wringing sounds of pleasure from deep inside her. A part of her brain was still trying to convince her that this was all some kind of illusion, but Harry was giving her the evidence to the contrary with every thrust and bite, every ache that would still be there come morning. She answered in kind, meeting his roughness with her own, chasing the release that was building up at the base of her spine, Harry’s breath at her pulse point, his fingers digging into her back.

“I’m not gonna last,” he murmured into her skin, harshly. “Not tonight.”

“Look at me,” she urged, her voice nearly as rough as his. She was close herself, five seconds of all-encompassing bliss only a hairbreadth from her grasp.

Harry did lift his head, his eyes wild, the look in them almost pained at trying to hold out for a little longer, and Tris put her thumb to his lower lip, red and bitten beneath her touch.

“Come,” she said, no command in her voice, just softness, but his eyes closed merely half a second later, his mouth went slack, his neck arched back, and the sight of his pleasure pushed Tris right over the edge as well, sizzling electricity in her veins and small sounds on her lips.

They fell into each other, back against the couch, catching their breath against each other’s skin, unable to speak or move for a few minutes.

Tris turned her head after a while, nuzzling Harry’s chest, the side of his neck, drawing in the smell and taste of sweat and sex and _him_. It felt like a loss when he finally slid out of her, and she pressed herself closer, his hands on her back and in her hair holding onto her just as much as hers were holding onto him.

“Tell me one thing, Beatrice,” he said, the rumbling of his voice resonating in her own ribcage. “Why did you agree to sing with me?”

“Blackmail,” Tris gave back, dryly, and Harry erupted in laughter. She looked up at him, a lopsided grin on her face. “I’m serious. Callie told me my record label would kick me out, if I didn’t agree. And then she told me you’d already said yes.”

For some reason, that prompted Harry to laugh even harder. Tris’ eyebrows rose. “Now, what did they tell _you_?”

Harry shook his head. “Those wankers. Jeff told me you’d already said yes. And that I was a coward for not rising up to the challenge.”

Tris let out an incredulous, offended noise. “I can’t believe it! They _both_ screwed us over! We should absolutely sue them.” She contemplated the notion again. “Or write them a thank-you-card.”

Harry was smiling at her now, his hair a sex-crazed mess of chestnut brown around his head. “Or maybe sue them AND write them a thank-you-card. Both might be in order.”

“Maybe, yes.”

Harry frowned. “I just realised we’ll have to tell people sooner or later. That we’re…you know.”

Tris bit her lip. “Back on?” she suggested.

He bowed down and kissed her, gently. “Yeah,” he said, letting go. “Back on.”

Tris thought about the gruesome, awkward conversations she’d have to lead, not so much with Callie or Niall – the former would probably just shrug it off, while the latter might actually be happy about this development –, but Perrie and Eva and Jesy and Annabel, and her Mum, and all the people who had relentlessly supported her in trying to work through the break-up? To tell them she’d just flung herself back into his arms as soon as the opportunity presented itself…well. Tris looked at Harry and smiled. There was not a single doubt in her mind that every ounce of outrage about to be thrown at her was one-thousand-percent worth it.

“We don’t have to tell them right away, though,” she suggested. “We should take it slow. Get ourselves in order first.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, stroking her shoulder with his thumb. “We should.” He gave her a thoughtful look. ”Do you want to drink a glass of whisky with me? And, um,…you know. Talk. About us.”

“Yes,” Tris said, firmly, returning his gaze. “Yes, I do."


	10. Running Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aggghhh, sorry for the irregular updating; real life is dead-set on eating ALL my time.

There was a gentle touch at her shoulder and the fresh smell of minty toothpaste in her nose when she grudgingly awoke, accompanied by a low, pleasant voice in her left ear. “Morning, sleepyhead. You should get up. Studio awaits.”

Tris blinked her eyes open only to see Harry’s smiling face right in front of her; and then she closed them again, before opening them once more to make sure that this wasn’t some kind of fantastic dream. As if he’d read her thoughts, Harry chuckled and said:

“No, you’re not asleep any more, Beatrice. And I’m not leaving without you.”

“What time is it?” she demanded, her voice strained and sleep-heavy. There was light streaming in through the window behind the vanity, so it must be at least 8.

“It’s 9.30. I already gave you almost one and a half hours more than you’d normally have.”

Tris yawned and lazily stretched her limbs. “That’s only fair, given the lengthiness of the talk we had last night. When did we get to bed? 4 a.m.?”

“Yes, but only because _you_ insisted on round two.” Harry was grinning, and Tris, feeling as awake as she would get after only 5.5 hours of sleep and before her first cup of coffee, looked him up and down. He was wearing the same things he’d worn last night – obviously; it wasn’t like he’d packed a second set of clothes when he’d come around – but he was freshly showered and the tips of his hair were still a little wet.

“It was not like you had any objections at the time,” she retorted.

“How could I object? You were very persuasive.”

Tris grinned and sat up in bed, messy strands of hair falling into her eyes that she pushed back out of her face when she leaned against the headrest. They’d emptied about a third of a bottle of the high-end whisky Harry had found in the mini bar while talking about everything they’d missed in each other’s life during the last eight months. Harry had broken the first ground by telling Tris about Camille, how it had begun and how it had ended between them, and Tris had swallowed a few instinctual twinges of jealousy as well as her pride, and told him about the long, lonely months without him, interspersed with occasional, somewhat shitty one-night-stands. She’d spoken about Niall, too, about Perrie’s party, about the conversation she’d overheard the next morning, about Prince Eric and his stupidity; and in turn Harry had talked about the flat he’d bought in L.A. and the projects he’d gotten involved in. They’d spoken about their shared past, too, indulging in memories, and then carefully moved on to the bad things, the things they’d done wrong, both of them coming to the conclusion that their inability to communicate in the end had stemmed from both their negligence and their hubris.

They’d made a deal, then and there, to never let it come to that again, _let’s not shove each other away, let’s not hide our feelings on any matter, let’s remember how it went wrong and never make the same mistakes ever again_. And then, carefully, vaguely, as if not to jinx it, they’d also talked about the future – the imminent one at first, the Investiture, what material they’d still have to go through, who might attend, what the Queen might be wearing. And then, further down the road, Christmas. New Year’s Eve. Next year. Holiday plans. At some point during their discussion about the merits and drawbacks of a holiday spent in Mexico, Tris had put both their glasses down, taken Harry’s hand and led him into the bedroom without further ado. Their second time that night had been a lot less desperate, less rough, less needy, more a drawn-out revelling in their closeness than a heated yearning for pleasure. They’d slept, a tangle of limbs, sated and happier than they’d both been for more than half a year.

“What are we rehearsing today?” Tris asked.

“Well, we’re not going to be alone, for a change. The band is coming in at two o’clock, so we should work on some of the timing issues. _Visionary_ springs to mind.”  
“Oh, God, yes, that fucking bridge. We _definitely_ need to work on that before anyone can be allowed to hear it.”

Harry sat down on the mattress beside her, took a strand of her unkempt hair and started playing with it between his fingers. He was watching her, quietly surveying her face and a slow smile started spreading on Tris’ lips.

“What is it?” she asked after a while of silence.

“Your hair is longer than I remember it,” Harry murmured, only half an explanation.

“And yours is shorter.” Tris’ hand came up, her fingers moving through the damp, silky strands of brown on his head, stroking softly. Harry leaned into the touch.

“It was getting too long. And…well, it felt good to cut it after that thing with Camille was over, you know.”

Tris’ smile grew. “I thought only women did that. Getting radical haircuts after ending a relationship.”

“You didn’t, though,” Harry retorted, and the, albeit indirect, mention of their break-up sparked a small, dull keepsake of pain in Tris’ stomach. “We must be the exception to the rule,” he added thoughtfully.

“Are you going to let it grow out again?” Tris asked, her hand still tangled in his hair. “I liked it when it was long.” Harry chuckled and bowed down, bringing his face closer to hers until their noses nearly touched.

“I might,” he breathed against her lips. “But only if you kiss me.”

“That’s blackmail. Also, I have terrible morning breath,” Tris gave back, her voice slightly faltering, her pulse speeding up with Harry’s lips only inches from hers. She wondered if that would ever stop, if Harry’s closeness would ever feel ordinary enough to not throw her nervous system into turmoil. She kind of doubted it.

“I’m allowed to blackmail you. And I don’t care,” Harry whispered, letting go of the strand between his fingers, his hand moving on to her cheek.

Tris didn’t need to be told again, her lips melting into Harry’s of their accord, and he answered by kissing her back deeply, his left hand pressing into her side.

After a little while his mouth drifted lower, downwards over her neck, and Tris chuckled softly. “If you keep doing that we’re _definitely_ going to be late.”

Harry, whose hands were already wandering under the blankets, deftly taking hold of the fabric of her nightgown, grinned up at her with an innocuous look. “Then let’s be late.”

A quick sway of the blankets later Tris’ legs were lying bare and Harry’s hands had come up to her hips, shoving the gown higher while he shifted his weight on the bed, before leaving her neck with his mouth and pressing a kiss to her knee instead. His ringed fingers slowly pushed her legs apart, and the way in which he licked his lips gave Tris shivers of the best possible kind.

“I’ll never get enough of this,” he murmured, his mouth against her left thigh, sliding closer to her centre, and then flat-out nuzzling her skin, strands of his hair brushing up against the hollow of her knee. “Your taste, your warmth, how you look on late mornings when you’re not quite awake. Mmmh.” His lips had reached her inner thigh and Tris was shaking, the deepness of Harry’s voice seeping through her every bone, his touch sparking the first precursors of pleasure along her spine.

“How could I ever…” His index finger, adorned with a red-stoned silver ring, started stroking her from the navel down, and Tris gasped. “Think I could just _forget_ you. How it was to…” He pressed a kiss very close to the part of her that craved to be touched the most. “Kiss you.” Another prickling, maddening contact of lips, closer still. “Taste you.” Harry lifted his head once more, looking at her with a glint in his eye that somehow managed to merge indecency with utter fondness. “Until you came.” He gave a little groan that assured Tris that she wasn’t the only one affected by this. “Oh, the look in your eyes, Beatrice. Those sounds in the back of your throat. Gets me hard just thinking about it.”

“Fuck,” Tris said, eloquently. “ _Fuck_.”

Harry’s gaze intensified. “Keep looking at me,” he demanded, and Tris gave a short, approving nod. He smiled at her – then his mouth was on her, administering slow, wicked strokes with his tongue; and Tris, overwhelmed, buried her fingers in the bed sheets and kept her marvelling eyes on him all the way through, until her mind left her for a few moments, and Harry kissed the remnants of her bliss from her half-open mouth.

 

 

***

 

 

By the time they finally made it downtown they were more than late. The clock showed almost 11 and they’d have to be quick with their private rehearsal – three hours were almost nothing for making progress with their timing issues, and working with the band was about to be extremely awkward, if they couldn’t get those right.

Still, they let their cab stop at the nearest _Starbucks_ for some direly needed caffeine, and the short walk to the studio turned into a slightly clumsy jog, what with the spilling hazard of hot fluids in their hands, that left them breathless and giggling when they entered through the heavy metal door.

Their inner five-year-olds immediately retreated when they saw who was waiting for them. Callie sat at the table in the corner on one of the small foldy chairs with crossed legs, sternly raising her eyebrows at them when they came in. She was the only person Tris knew who could convey that much disapproval in a single stare; so much that she reminded Tris of a very, very strict teacher more than of a manager sometimes – and if, by logic, the role of naughty schoolchildren fell to Tris and Harry in this comparison, Tris felt like they were filling it all too well today.

“Good morning.”

“Morning, Callie,” they answered in unison, and Tris tried very hard indeed to shake the irrational fear that they were about to be put in detention. A sidelong glance in Harry’s direction told her that they were very much in the same boat – his left hand had started fidgeting with the hem of his coat and the slightly guilt-ridden expression in his eyes spoke volumes.

“Ummm, sorry if we kept you waiting,” he added, carefully. Tris realised that it was a question attempting to determine how _long_ Callie had been waiting for them just as much as an apology for their tardiness.

“If I recall correctly,” Callie rose from the chair, smoothing her grey pencil skirt, her eyes sharp and bright across the room, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. “Rehearsal starts at 9 am. Wasting time just because of personal…differences is, as I’m sure you are both aware, very unprofessional. And against your own best interest, too.”

Only then did she seem to spot the matching _Starbucks_ cups in their hands and the spatial closeness between them, because her eyebrows shot up to her hairline with surprising velocity, taking the annoyance off her face and replacing it with surprise.

“We…um. Settled. Our differences. That’s kinda why we’re…late,” Tris answered.

There was a long stretch of very uncomfortable silence; and then, out of the blue, Callie’s demeanour shifted completely. The expression on her face changed from annoyance to an elated smile in a matter of milliseconds, like someone had flipped a switch and she grabbed her bag from the table in something close to haste.

“I won’t hold you up any longer then. Have fun. And don’t forget to – work.” She gave them another one of her serious looks, but it lost some of its intimidating qualities when paired with the broadening smile currently residing on her face. Then Callie rushed past them to the studio entrance, grabbing her coat from the sofa on the way, and gone she was, leaving them with a final, heavy slam of the door in baffled silence.

“What the hell...?” Tris finally said, looking at Harry, utterly confused.

“Not the faintest. And, hey, she's not my manager, so I have even lesser precedence than you.”

“Yeah.” Tris gave the door a hard stare, like it might be capable of deciphering the thoughts of the person who had just walked through it and repeat them to her, if she only glared at it enough.

“She’s definitely calling Jeff right now, though. Reconstructing events,” Harry grumbled, taking a sip from his black coffee.

“Like an overpaid psychologist,” Tris retorted and he grinned at her.

“Exactly like that.”

“This is so weird,” Tris murmured.

“She’s not going to tell anyone apart from Jeff. You know her stance on confidentiality,” Harry gave back.

“I do, and that gives me a modicum of hope. I’d really like to do the telling-people-part myself.” She sighed deeply. “Which, by the way, is _not_ going to be any fun whatsoever.”

Harry, who had gone over to put his cup down on the table and shake off his coat, laughed. “No. The only thing that might make it even less fun is when the paparazzi do the job for you.”

The way he said it was careful and measured, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether to confront her with that possibility, but did it regardless; and Tris was glad for it – talking about these things hadn’t been possible back in spring, and the fact that they were doing it now meant progress.

She walked up to Harry after leaving her own cup next to his and taking her coat off as well, sloppily throwing it down on the couch. His arm came up around her back like a reflex and Tris rested her forehead against his cheek, her hands on his chest, feeling his warmth through the dark green pullover he was wearing. “Let them do what they want. I’d confront a million flashing cameras and nagging questions. A million Perries, too, which – honestly – scares me more than the paparazzi at this point. This,” She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I would do anything to never lose it again.”

Harry was pulling her in until her head was resting comfortably at his neck and their arms were wrapping each other up completely. “That makes two of us then,” he said, and Tris’ smile got lost in the warm skin between his collarbones.


End file.
